T plus 23 - Turfan
My brief suspension of reality in Dunhuang, the utopian Chinese city, came in for a hard landing when I arrived in Turfan or tulufan, my first stop in Xinjiang i.e. The New Frontier, China’s western-most region.
Turfan is everything Dunhuang is not – disorganised, swelteringly hot and less-than-prosperous.
Located 150m below sea level, Turfan is oft compared to California’s Death Valley. Temperatures here can hit an unbelievable 48 C in the summer, and strong winds propel sand into every crevice imaginable. Buildings have uninspired white-tiled facades and the pavements are caked with an amalgamation of dust, litter and phlegm.
The Internet, as the free world knows it, is non-existent in Turfan where bandwidth is atrocious, Whatsapp does not work and VPN services, which have permitted the side-skirting of the Great Fire Wall in other regions, are unreliable. Perhaps this additional layer of restrictions is related to the 10-month internet blackout in 2009 where the Government bunged Xinjiang back into the dark ages following an Islamic separatist uprising where 200 people were killed.
The tensions between the local ethnic community, the Uighurs, and the Han Chinese, whose deluge-like influx into the region has been “encouraged”, is palpable even to an outsider like me. From my walkabouts, there seems to be an invisible line in the sand dividing the two communities across most things - culture, cuisine and even commerce. Only tourists (domestic and foreign) seem to comfortably transition between the separate realms.
I think I detect an undercurrent of discontent simmering under the thin veneer of order and China-first unity prescribed by the authorities. And although there are no armed patrols like in Lhasa, there are still riot shields tucked behind security counters at transportation hubs and even hotel lobbies equipped with metal detectors and X-ray machines. The Chinese Government’s strategic approach seems to be centred on dilution – 50 or 60 years ago, the Uighurs comprised 90% of Xinjiang’s population. Today, they make up less than half of its people.
The locals, however, appear resolute in preserving their identity. Although mandarin or putonghua is compulsory in schools, the Uighurs accent it heavily, to the point that it often takes two or three attempts for the Han Chinese to fully comprehend them. And Xinjiang is the only place in China which does not follow the single time zone foisted on the entire country by the powers in Beijing. The locals abide by their proprietary “Xinjiang time”, a full 2 hours behind the rest of China, whereas the official institutions – railways, post offices, banks etc – follow Beijing time. One can imagine the resulting chaos, but everyone seems to be content with this peculiar compromise. For now.
Despite all these issues, and even though Turfan is not Dunhuang, it’s not such a bad thing. For starters the city provides a fascinating glimpse into how different ethnicities co-exist in China, however tenuous the harmony. Also, because of its sunny and dry conditions, it is China’s foremost grape (and therefore wine) growing area. In Turfan, the main pedestrian street has covered walkways interlaced with grape vines and the locals are justifiably proud of their horticultural heritage. The ethnic diversity makes for fantastic gastronomic experiences where dishes such as dapanji, literally “big plate of chicken”, and lamb trotters served with naan swimming in its delicately spicy broth reign supreme and are rarely found elsewhere in the country.
The Uighurs are hospitable people, and I suspect this is one of the few places in China where it’ll be easier for me to dispense with the Han-lookalike exterior and immediately identify myself as a foreigner. I met a group of university students on the long train ride between Turfan and Kuqa and they are exceedingly communal and communicative, with everyone participating in a constant stream of shared chatter, food and levity throughout. From this admittedly small sampling, it also appears that their level of English, at least amongst the Gen-Y, is better than most Han folk I’ve met. Again, could this be a subtle attempt to differentiate themselves?
Apologies everyone, for I have no pretty pictures this time – Turfan isn’t exactly a photographer’s paradise. However, in response to requests for more food-related blogging, I will append a picture of lamb trotters with naan. A remarkably refined dish, packed with gelatinous goodness, and one of my favourites so far in China.
My brief suspension of reality in Dunhuang, the utopian Chinese city, came in for a hard landing when I arrived in Turfan or tulufan, my first stop in Xinjiang i.e. The New Frontier, China’s western-most region.
Turfan is everything Dunhuang is not – disorganised, swelteringly hot and less-than-prosperous.
Located 150m below sea level, Turfan is oft compared to California’s Death Valley. Temperatures here can hit an unbelievable 48 C in the summer, and strong winds propel sand into every crevice imaginable. Buildings have uninspired white-tiled facades and the pavements are caked with an amalgamation of dust, litter and phlegm.
The Internet, as the free world knows it, is non-existent in Turfan where bandwidth is atrocious, Whatsapp does not work and VPN services, which have permitted the side-skirting of the Great Fire Wall in other regions, are unreliable. Perhaps this additional layer of restrictions is related to the 10-month internet blackout in 2009 where the Government bunged Xinjiang back into the dark ages following an Islamic separatist uprising where 200 people were killed.
The tensions between the local ethnic community, the Uighurs, and the Han Chinese, whose deluge-like influx into the region has been “encouraged”, is palpable even to an outsider like me. From my walkabouts, there seems to be an invisible line in the sand dividing the two communities across most things - culture, cuisine and even commerce. Only tourists (domestic and foreign) seem to comfortably transition between the separate realms.
I think I detect an undercurrent of discontent simmering under the thin veneer of order and China-first unity prescribed by the authorities. And although there are no armed patrols like in Lhasa, there are still riot shields tucked behind security counters at transportation hubs and even hotel lobbies equipped with metal detectors and X-ray machines. The Chinese Government’s strategic approach seems to be centred on dilution – 50 or 60 years ago, the Uighurs comprised 90% of Xinjiang’s population. Today, they make up less than half of its people.
The locals, however, appear resolute in preserving their identity. Although mandarin or putonghua is compulsory in schools, the Uighurs accent it heavily, to the point that it often takes two or three attempts for the Han Chinese to fully comprehend them. And Xinjiang is the only place in China which does not follow the single time zone foisted on the entire country by the powers in Beijing. The locals abide by their proprietary “Xinjiang time”, a full 2 hours behind the rest of China, whereas the official institutions – railways, post offices, banks etc – follow Beijing time. One can imagine the resulting chaos, but everyone seems to be content with this peculiar compromise. For now.
Despite all these issues, and even though Turfan is not Dunhuang, it’s not such a bad thing. For starters the city provides a fascinating glimpse into how different ethnicities co-exist in China, however tenuous the harmony. Also, because of its sunny and dry conditions, it is China’s foremost grape (and therefore wine) growing area. In Turfan, the main pedestrian street has covered walkways interlaced with grape vines and the locals are justifiably proud of their horticultural heritage. The ethnic diversity makes for fantastic gastronomic experiences where dishes such as dapanji, literally “big plate of chicken”, and lamb trotters served with naan swimming in its delicately spicy broth reign supreme and are rarely found elsewhere in the country.
The Uighurs are hospitable people, and I suspect this is one of the few places in China where it’ll be easier for me to dispense with the Han-lookalike exterior and immediately identify myself as a foreigner. I met a group of university students on the long train ride between Turfan and Kuqa and they are exceedingly communal and communicative, with everyone participating in a constant stream of shared chatter, food and levity throughout. From this admittedly small sampling, it also appears that their level of English, at least amongst the Gen-Y, is better than most Han folk I’ve met. Again, could this be a subtle attempt to differentiate themselves?
Apologies everyone, for I have no pretty pictures this time – Turfan isn’t exactly a photographer’s paradise. However, in response to requests for more food-related blogging, I will append a picture of lamb trotters with naan. A remarkably refined dish, packed with gelatinous goodness, and one of my favourites so far in China.
