The only route south from Kashgar, it has been traveled for over 2000 yrs by traders, pilgrims bound for Mecca and Marco Polo. The ancient treacherous mountain trail is visible in places as it undulates a precipitous path around the base of the mountains. In one place it leads to a flat pasture on a rocky promontory high above the river bed. The ruins of an old Caravanserai litter the grass. Here travelers would spend the night safe within the now crumbling walls
Further on a rough wooden suspension bridge dips across a gorge to a cluster of stone homes. I had asked Abdul if we could stop to photograph one of the bridges. I had in mind the type seen in travel brochures with a nice background of mountains and blue sparkling water taken in perfect conditions with maybe a shot of a mule photoshopped in. This was different because it was real. I stood at the start of the bridge looking down at the muddy water surging over rocks below and took a few tentative steps. The bridge swayed. I took a few more and then felt it vibrate. I turned, Abdul was following me. I asked him if was ok to cross and he nodded. The mismatched bords had been roughly nailed together but they looked new. There was not much to hold onto and the bridge bounced disconcertingly as each of us stepped like two dancers out of sync
On the other side was a circle of typical Kyrgyz stone homes. About 8 ft high, flatroofed, with painted wooden doors. A Kyrgyz woman approached offering her hand which I shook. She motioned towards the home. I followed her in. I ducked under the doorway. Ther were two rooms. The inner had platforms which filled two third of the space. They were covered with rugs as were the stone walls. on of the platforms an old woman was rhythmically pulling on a chord attached to a red bundle which was suspended from the roof at each end like a hammock. A small stove filled the room with an amazingly cozy warmth. The rugs and wall hangings giving great insulation. A piece of plastic covered an opening high in the wall, the only daylight. The old woman smiled at me as if she had been expecting me
More Kyrgyz woman crowded into the small space all smiling. They offered a small carved yak which I bought. Carved from a bone, the circumference of the medium limits artistic creativity so the head of the yak stretches forward gazing forlornly at the ground. I chose one which would stand. Some did not and lay on their sides, their legs stretched in a strange rigamortis. The grand mother seemed excited by the sale and fingered the yuan notes smiling. She had forgotten her duties and stopped pulling on
The cord to count the money. The red bundle began to cry. I had assumed it was a baby but since their was no face visible among the swaddle of coverings I was not quite sure. Now I knew and the crying became more plaintive. It was time to go
We bowed, thanked them in Uighur - glad I had one word of the language. Before the trip back across the bridge Abdul suggested I put my camera strap around my neck. A wise suggestion I realized as I looked at the churning water below
Back on the other bank we passed four circular yurts not made of felt or even canvas but of cold white concrete. Abdul said the Chinese government had issued these foe the Kyrgyz families. They had never been used. They stand cold and cheerless. They never would be inhabited. It would be hard to replicate the warmth and cozy domesticty of the traditional homes across the river which have probably changed very little since the 13thcentury when Marco Polo followed this river to Kashgar
Ttfn
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
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