I decided to call one friend that i thought might share my interest in some quiet time in the mountains. “Yeah! I’d love to go. Let’s get 4-5 people to go with us. I’ll be great!” I muffled a groan, paused, and told him our ideas of a quiet day in the mountains were quite different. I guess it says something about my personality as an extrovert that I initially looked for 1-2 people to go with me. Quickly realizing my folly, I got up on Friday morning, packed my bag and ran for the hills. Alone.
Grabbing a black taxi, I was faced with the life-sucking reality of Urumqi rush-hour traffic. Arriving at the station, I grabbed some water and nan. I always enjoy this particular nan stand, both for their excellent nan and friendly welcome. There is always a warm hand-shake and a little chatter in their broken Chinese and my barely existent Uyghur. Grabbing my nan, I headed back to the station. Having numerous valleys to choose from, I decided on one I’d been to but wanted to explore more. It’s always a bit overwhelming walking into the parking lot overflowing with old, tired looking buses. Finding my bus, I jumped on. I find it a bit disconcerting when those old buses start up, chugging and coughing to life; it seems this must indeed be it’s last trip up the mountain.
Plugging along through traffic I watched the city roll away behind us. Upscale shops opening on maintained sidewalks gave way to scrubby looking dirt lots of mechanic shops and noodle stands. Finally the city gave way to the wide open, arid landscape. The city to our backs, you could see for miles to the right and left while ahead the foothills of South Mountains sat under the shadow of rugged mountains beyond. The flat dry scrub brush soon gave way to rolling hills spotted with flocks of sheep and the occasional shepherd on horseback. All around my fellow passengers chattered away, some in Chinese, some in Uyghur, and some in Kazak. The man across from me literally yelled into his phone most of the trip in a tongue I could not identify. Possibly Mongolian? Possibly a local dialect from some other place in China. With honks to clear sheep from the road or to alert possible passengers of his arrival it was anything but a quiet ride. Randomly the bus would stop and an old farmer would climb on. A Hui family would get off, each person haggling over the price for their ride. Suddenly, the burlap bag at my feet began moving and the clucks of a chicken came from the nondescript bag. The driver slammed on the brakes as he turned around yelling, “Put that chicken under the bus!” The man obediently got off the bus, threw the chicken in the cargo hold and got back on. After an hour, our bus pulled up in Gan Gou Village. Jumping off, I headed off on foot, refusing rides from Kazaks on motorcycles who saw me as a possible guest in their mountain-top yurt. Already, the clamor of city, bus, and civilization was falling away as I enjoyed my new found quiet.
Reaching the edge of town, I was startled out of my silent rapture by a loud, “Hallo!” Looking over I saw several men sitting at a shabby looking table by the side of the road. There was nothing official except save for a make-shift sign that read Buy Tickets Here. “You have to buy a ticket”, the man exclaimed. “Ticket? What ticket?”, I replied. They told me that I was entering a "scenic tourist area" and would need a ticket. Admittedly I go into defensive mode in these situations. Is this a scam to cheat the tourist? It seemed best to test the legitimacy of this situation by their response. “Oh. I’m not a tourist. I’m just up from Urumqi to find a little peace and quiet”, I said as I turned and headed on my way. No reply came back. So, I kept walking. Guess it wasn’t real. Or they just didn’t know what to do with a foreigner that refused to pay.
My walk up the mountains was thoroughly enjoyable, aside from the two honey farms where literally hundreds of bees swarmed the roads. Not a great time to forget my epi-Pen, I thought to myself. The winding, uphill road passed resort villages and Kazak farms. Only the occasional car, motorcycle or farmer on horseback interrupted the quiet. Finding a good spot, I plopped down on the roadside to enjoy my lunch. Seems the farm I intended to stay at was a little farther than I expected (I found out later it was 8 kilometers or 4.97 miles to be exact). Arriving at the hilltop farm, it seemed at first, void of people. After a short search I found an old woman in one of the sheds, muttering as she puttered around. “Is Old Three here?”, I asked in Chinese. She responded under her breath as she muttered something in Kazak and pointed to the house. Following me over, she opened the door, motioned for me to sit on the kang (raised, rug-covered platform) and promptly left. Over the course of the next 15 minutes she rushed in and out, each time grabbing some item and giving me a fretful glance as she muttered in Kazak. She didn’t speak any Chinese. I don’t speak Kazak. Having no idea what was going on I decided I’d wait 15 minutes more before taking my leave. Thankfully, Old Three finally arrived. Confirming that he had room for me to stay that night I grabbed my backpack and headed back up the hill to the road. “How much?”, I asked. “We’re friends!”, replied, “Give whatever you’d like.”
Assured that I had a place to crash that night I headed up into the hills. Following a deep ridge I enjoyed the open pastures to my right and the deep pine forest sloping off into the ravine on my left. Finding a sunny spot on the side of the mountain I spread a blanket, took my shirt off, and enjoyed the fall sunshine. Continuing on, I found the point of that ridge simply ended in lower foothills. Longing for higher, more remote elevations I headed back up the ridge. The day was spent walking, stopping, snoozing in the sun, reading, journaling, and snacking. My only company were the wandering flocks of sheep and the random cow that wandered along the path or up out of the woods. There was the occasional Kazak herdsman on horseback or motorcycle. They always stopped for a chat and to ask if I wanted to rent their yurt. “Oh. I’m staying with Old Three down there”, as I pointed back down the mountain. His farm was continually visible from the ridge of the ravine. “Oh! Old Three is our relative. But next time call us! Our Yurt is clean and comfortable” said one couple on motorcycle as they headed off to check on their sheep.
It’s an interesting thing to experience silence after long periods of a lack thereof. One thing that has been hard to adjust to here is the constant presence of noise. People on the street below. A folk orchestra in the courtyard every morning. The school next door that blasts patriotic and classical music all day. The night club next to my complex that bumps into the night. The honking, beeping traffic. The clamor of men and woman hawking their goods on the street. Stores that blare music from their storefronts in an attempt to attract customers. It seems there is always activity. Having grown up outside a town of 3,000 I admit it has been wearying at times. Sitting in the sun with a breathtaking vista before me was deeply refreshing; I couldn’t seem to cause my senses to take in enough of my surroundings. The clean, fresh air. The silence. The forest sweeping down several hundred feet into a ravine littered with one-story, flat-roofed, brick farm houses. The opposite side sloped up to open rolling pastures on the other side. Off to the left, the mountains of Tian Shan rose to imposing rocky peaks in the distance. My trance was broken by the quiet steps an old woman wandering by. I pretended not to see her as acknowledging her presence might require me to put my shirt on.
Wandering that valley took up most of the afternoon and early evening. As the sun began to set I decided it was time to head back down. I was reluctant to move too fast as I meandered down the path, the pastures still on my right and woods sloping off to my left. I couldn’t take in enough of the quiet or the vistas at every turn. Only an hour or more after dark did I wander back into the yard of the sleepy farm where I was staying. Lights from a small out-building poured out into the dark yard. “Over here!”, yelled Old Three. “Assalamualaikum”, I said as I stepped into the small room that contained both kitchen and living quarters. “Walaikum asalam,” responded Old Three as he motioned for his mother-in-law to pour me a bowl of milk tea. She was still muttering in Kazak most of the time I sat there, most often not to anyone in particular. Though the hospitality was warm, I was exhausted. It was only 8pm, but I was more than ready for bed. Leading me into the main house, Old Three spread a mat and thick quilt on the raised, carpeted kang. Brightly covered rugs and posters of famous Kazak musicians holding dumbras adorned the walls. The posters were written in both Arabic and Cyrillic script making it accessible to the Kazak population on both sides of the Kazakhstan/China border. A professionally printed family tree hung next to the window. A dumbra and various skins hung from the high molding and hand-stitched pillows lines the edges of the room. A lone Evil Eye hung ominously from the vaulted ceiling at the far end of the wall. A cabinet underneath held a 5 foot high, neatly folded stack of mats and quilts, ready for any unexpected guest.
I stepped out one last time to drink in the night sky, bright with stars. It’s not often that I see a night sky like that. Heading back in, I opened the window, switched off the light, and lay down. Utter silence. Complete darkness. This was why I had come.
Waking up the next morning, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and joined Old Three and his muttering mother-in-law for milk tea. “Stay a few more days”, said Old Three between sips of tea and bites of nan. From experience, I know this is simply courtesy. Responding with a bit of courtesy about coming back again, I handed Old Three 30 kuai, grabbed my pack and headed down the mountain, enjoying my last moments of quiet. After all, I'd be arriving back in Urumqi just in time for rush-hour traffic.