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 ince childhood, I've been enchanted by the adventures of Marco Polo and tales of Tamerlane's empire centered in the fabled cities of Bukhara and Samarqand. So, I jumped at the opportunity to join a small group on an expedition along the Asian portion of the longest historical wonder of the world.
The Silk Road was one of humankind's mightiest rivers of commerce, culture, and conquest. Its many branches wove through the heart of Asia and Europe, linking an immense area that stretched from Rome and Russia all the way across Persia and Turkistan into eastern China. For centuries, caravans ventured across some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth to buy and sell an extravagant mixture of goods. Today, the Silk Route still offers travelers scenic contrasts, ancient architecture, diverse cultures, and lessons in history. After a six-year journey from his home in Venice, the famed European adventurer Marco Polo arrived in Peking in 1275. The ruthless Kublai Khan, grandson of Genghis, was then at the height of his power. Under his rule, China's roads were improved and trade was promoted throughout the empire. Europeans heard of a great and civilized nation to the east and were captivated by stories of the Orient. Polo remained in China for nearly twenty years and traveled as an emissary of the khan to remote lands as far away as Kashgar. The remarkable story of his Silk Road adventures, The Description of the World, brought him renown as the king of medieval travelers. In his book, Polo noted that "everyday more than 1,000 cartloads of silk enter the capital." Lei Zu, wife of the legendary Yellow Emperor, was credited with the discovery of silkworms and invention of sericulture. As I strolled through the multitude of alleyways of Beijing, I unexpectedly came upon three generations of a Chinese family--a girl, her mother, and grandmother, who were weaving silk threads from a wok of boiling cocoons. Remarkably, the breeding of silkworms and production of silk have changed little through the ages, and I was mesmerized by the process. Voracious Bombyx mori caterpillars feed day and night on large quantities of handpicked mulberry leaves. Within a month, each silkworm multiplies its weight nearly ten thousand times. Then, after being placed on a pile of twigs or straw, the pupa spins a cocoon from a single silken thread approximately half a mile long. An ancient capital  he next morning we headed west for Xi'an, the ancient capital of eleven dynasties and the cradle of Chinese civilization. In 194 b.c., the Emperor Han Huidi built a magnificent imperial capital called Chang'an--Everlasting Peace--which became the starting point for the grand caravans of the Silk Road. When Chang'an reached its zenith during the Tang dynasty, with over two million inhabitants, it was regarded as the most cosmopolitan city in the world. In 1368, the name changed to Xi'an, or Western Peace. Today, the city remains crowded and bustling, with clamoring bicycles and horse-drawn carts winding through heavy traffic.
It was the time of the Midautumn (Harvest) Moon Festival, when the moon is at its largest and brightest. Since the tenth century, it has been customary to eat moon cakes, a sweet pastry filled with ground lotus and sesame paste. The one I sampled even had an egg yolk at its center. In the fourteenth century, when the Han people planned a revolt against the Mongols, they used moon cakes to pass clandestine plans for an impending insurrection. Not far outside the city lies the staging ground for a field of immortal characters. Discovered in 1974, the Qin terra-cotta warriors are one of the twentieth century's greatest archaeological finds. Thousands of life-size armored soldiers and horses were created to serve Emperor Qin Shihuang (r. 221--210 b.c.) in the afterlife. Standing tall in battle formation, the archers, cavalry, infantry, and charioteers grasp swords and spears. As I stood within the immense hangar erected over the site, I imagined a battle cry summoning the soldiers from their earthen beds into the light of day. After leaving Xi'an, the first important stopover would have been at Lanzhou, where Marco Polo lived for a year. Hugging the banks of the Yellow River, this capital of Gansu Province remains a transportation and industrial hub. To view the area's most famous site, our intrepid group rode out to the river to catch a barge upstream. As often happens in China, an unanticipated, contrasting scene unfolded before our eyes. Above old wooden temples, rickety fishing boats, and deteriorating docks loomed one of China's largest hydroelectric power stations. It generates an annual 5.7 billion kilowatt-hours of electricity, so-called progress venting around an ancient vision. Soon the river took us through such breathtaking wilderness that we forgot about the madness of the modern world. After several hours, the yellow-green hills gave way to jagged pinnacles and eroded strata of rich red-orange earth until we arrived at the entrance of the Binglingsi Buddha Caves. Over a period of fifteen hundred years, Buddhist monks and pious pilgrims carved and decorated thousands of caves from the soft earth. Nearly eight hundred stone statues and stuccos have survived. The largest of these, made of straw and clay, is the imposing eighty-foot-tall Maitreya Buddha, which keeps a watchful eye over this harmonious location. Still, once the river level rose from the damming, neither the Buddha nor the small community of Tibetan lamas, who live nearby in tiny huts, could save the lower caves from being flooded. The Western Frontier  t was time to leave central China and head out into the western frontier, lands that have remained relatively untouched by the latest five-year plans. For me, this would be a venture into uncharted territory; even though I'd traveled extensively through other parts of China, Xinjiang Province, in the northwest, remained a distant mirage. So, when our group crossed the Jiayuguan (Greatest under Heaven) Pass and came upon the last remnants of the Great Wall, I felt like a pioneer of old about to enter the barbarian abyss. The arched walls were once covered with poems wrung from those facing uncertain futures. As one example attests: "Only the brave cross the Martial Barrier. Who is not afraid of the vast desert?"
In 1895, the daring explorer Sven Hedin undertook an expedition to survey routes along uncharted oasis towns. His maps, in turn, inspired Sir Aurel Stein, a member of the British Raj, to embark "on a systematic exploration of Silk Route sites." Stein's most remarkable discovery was at the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas (today known as the Magao Grotto), the largest rock-temple complex in Central Asia. Here, he came upon hundreds of caves stacked with ancient Buddhist manuscripts, silk paintings, tempera murals, and other works of art that had survived both time and the Islamic purges. In all, Stein hauled twenty-nine crates from this previously unknown enclave back to the British Museum (the Diamond Sutra, the world's oldest book--printed in 868--is still on display). Condemning these actions as theft, the Chinese refer to Stein as "the most heinous of foreign devils." Ironically, if left in China, the contents of the caves would likely have been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. While in Dunhuang, I accepted an invitation to venture out to the Singing Sand Mountains, a vast ridge of dunes lying just south of town. The area turned out to be a huge makeshift playground. None of the local kids knew where I came from, and it didn't matter at all. The common language was laughter, and all shared the hospitality of the heart. A lively teenager thrust a small wooden sled into my hands and dared me to follow him up the steep 820-foot dune. At the top, I set my sled on the slope and proceeded to whiz all the way down, listening to the sands sing beneath me. The next day, it was time for our own journey into the fearsome Taklimakan Desert, which swallows up two-thirds of the province. After greeting my camel, Abdullah, I slung my left leg over the embroidered carpet-saddle, squeezed in between his two humps, and coaxed the recalcitrant animal to stand. We appeared as caravans of old, one camel lined behind the other, laden with people and gear. Because of blinding sandstorms, Polo noted, "Travelers keep very close together ... and round the necks of all their beasts they fasten little bells." To skirt this desolate expanse, the Silk Road split into a northern and southern route at Dunhuang, with both circuits eventually rejoining in Kashgar. We set forth with justifiable trepidation: in Turkic, Taklimakan means "go in and you will not come out." Fierce winds constantly reshape the desert's landscape, and temperatures fluctuate from 170íF in summer to well below freezing in winter. Outfitted in a long cotton caftan, I felt like Lawrence of Arabia (who was actively involved in British campaigns in Xinjiang in the 1930s). I soon began learning to adapt to the harsh environment. Like a horse, a camel can trot and gallop, and Abdullah and I quickened the pace to the next oasis town, Turpan. Once known as Huozhou, the "Land of Fire," Turpan is situated in a depression, 260 feet below sea level. The climate is extremely dry, averaging 299 rainless days a year. At 505 feet below sea level, nearby Moon Lake is the world's second-lowest continental point, after the Dead Sea. The karez irrigation complex is essential to Turpan's survival and has been in place for two millennia. There are over 470 systems with 1,000 miles of tunnels, the longest of which extends over 25 miles. Wells begin at the feet of distant mountains, and underground channels carry the melted runoff into town. Land of the uighur  n important strategic center of the Silk Road, Xinjiang once comprised thirty-six separate kingdoms. The ancient towns of Jiaohe and Gaochang were built as garrisons to protect border lands, as those who controlled oasis towns could tax the flow of goods. Xinjiang, which is about the size of size of Alaska, makes up one-sixth of China's territory. Much of the country's wealth still lies hidden in this region: gold, coal, copper, and jade. Oil exploration is under way deep in the Taklimakan, and China has tested nuclear weapons at the desert's southern rim, near the phantom paths of the Silk Road's ancestors.
Since 1955, the area has officially been known as the Xinjiang Uygur (pronounced Weeger) Autonomous Region. There are over thirteen million inhabitants, with the predominant Uighur nationality making up half the population. The Uighur ("United") stem from early nomadic Turkic tribes that settled down and took control of trade routes in the eighth century. After abandoning shamanistic beliefs for Buddhism, they eventually embraced Islam. The Uighur still have little in common with the Chinese. Their language is closely related to Turkish, and their script is Arabic. They are immensely proud of their Muslim customs and 1,200-year-old heritage.
Our guide in the capital, Urumqi, was a robust and jocular Uighur woman named Medina. We explored the sprawling high-rise city and visited the regional museum, where exhibits of Silk Road treasures and the famous Urumqi mummies are on display. Later we drove out to the azure-colored Heaven Lake, situated in the foothills of the Heavenly Mountains. After spending many a day in a desert milieu, it was a relief to behold alpine meadows and snowcapped peaks.
We were back in Urumqi in time for the Anniversary of the Chinese Revolution--an interesting place to celebrate, considering that the Han Chinese are outnumbered by other ethnic groups. Medina invited us to experience a traditional Uighur fest. Upon entering, it is customary to rinse the hands three times with water poured by the host. As we feasted on plov (pilaf), manta (thin-skinned dumplings), and grilled kebabs, Medina's brothers played traditional instruments including the dotar, a two-stringed guitar, and sheepskin tambourines. Pregnant with her second child, Medina explained to us that national minorities were still exempt from the government's one-child policy. Though the Chinese have tried to relieve the backwardness of this remote region by building hospitals, roads, and railways, they've also sought to dilute Uighur culture through sinicization. For example, the Arabic script is no longer taught in schools (it has been replaced by a romanized form). As in Tibet, the Chinese government has flooded the region with Han Chinese settlers and soldiers. Two ancient cities fter crossing Kyrgyzstan and southern Kazakhstan, we reached Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan. Within this most historically fascinating of the Central Asian republics stand some of the oldest towns of the Silk Road, whose legacies date back to the Turkic hordes and Tamerlane. These landmarks are endowed with some of the most audacious architectural delights of the Islamic world; splendid madrasahs, mosques, minarets, and mausoleums herald a glorious past. Though the Uzbeks were subjugated to many decades of russification, they have emerged unscathed with a proud allegiance to their rich heritage.
The women who stroll through the bazaars still wear the traditional costume: boldly striped, tie-dyed ikat gowns. Eyebrows that grow together across the bridge of the nose are a sign of beauty, and women often supplement this line with dark pencil. Older men wear quilted waistcoats, embroidered skullcaps, and leather boots. They hang out in the teahouses, chatting in Uzbek and flashing their gold-capped teeth. As the aksakal (whitebeards) sip from their mugs of steaming chai, they delight in swapping stories of the heroes, poets, and proselytizers of the Silk Road's golden age. After a five-hour drive along the fringes of the Kyzylkum Desert, we arrived at the oasis town of Samarqand. Central Asia's oldest settlement, it dates to the sixth century b.c. Alexander the Great captured it, and Genghis Khan razed it to the ground. In the fourteenth century, Tamerlane turned it into the "Pearl of the East," building sky-blue domes and glittering mosaics that still arch high above the bazaars. I walked straight to the Registan, the city's centerpiece and, for me, one of the most awesome sites of the trip. Our felicitous female Uzbek guide, Ikbol, proudly explained that the centrally placed Tillya-Kari Mosque was built in 1660; the
Like the Tower of Babel, the towering minarets of the Bibi Khanym Mosque challenge the heavens. One of the more disheartening legends has it that Tamerlane's Chinese wife, Bibi Khanym, ordered the mosque built as a surprise for her husband, who was away at war. During the process, the Persian architect fell madly in love with Bibi and refused to finish the job unless granted a kiss. The queen finally relented. When the king returned, he noticed a mark (left by the ardor of passion) on her cheek: for their infidelity, Bibi was cast from a minaret and the architect beheaded. From that day forth Tamerlane decreed that all women in his kingdom wear a veil so as to never again tempt any man with their beauty! At the edge of town, topped by a magnificent azure dome (as one poet exulted, "should the sky disappear, the dome will replace it"), stands the glorious Guri Amir Mausoleum, or Tomb of the Ruler. Here is buried the mighty Tamerlane--the British rendition of Timur-i-Leng, or Timur the Lame. Born in 1336, he received arrow wounds in his twenties that left him lame in his right leg. This affliction never slowed him down; by 1400, Tamerlane controlled most of Asia, and Samarqand (his capital for thirty years) had swelled to over 150,000 inhabitants. The old ruler died in 1405, on his way to conquer China. In 1941, a distinguished Soviet scientist received permission to exhume Tamerlane's body and reaffirmed his lameness. An old legend was put to the test: "Whoever opens this tomb will be defeated by an enemy more fearsome than I." The next day, June 22, Germany invaded Russia. End of the road  ukhara's temperature was a sizzling 108 degrees when we arrived a few days later. As Samarqand was the center of commerce, Bukhara, in turn, became the empire's religious heart. It was said that "while elsewhere light radiates from heaven onto land, in holy Bukhara it radiates upward to illuminate heaven." By the sixteenth century, the town was reported to have 127 madrasahs, and citizens boasted that they could worship Allah in a different mosque every day of the year. In 1997, Bukhara celebrated its 2,500th birthday. And what a formidable and frightening history it has.
From the fifth century until 1920, the emirs of Bukhara ruled from the Ark, or fortified citadel, which acted as both palace and prison. The most deranged of the rulers was Nasrullah Khan, nicknamed "The Butcher" (his official title, though, was the Shadow of God Upon Earth), who ascended the throne in 1826 after killing his three brothers and twenty-eight other relatives. Later, he had his wife and three daughters executed in front of his eyes to ensure their eternal chastity. For years, the women of Bukhara dared appear in public only if wearing heavy cloaks and long parinja (horsehair) veils.
Our group celebrated our last evening together in the whitewashed courtyard of an old madrasah. An arbor of succulent grapes hung about us, and shooting stars danced overhead in a moonless sky. As patrons, we were seated on large square couches, more like cushioned beds, and served glasses of the local wine poured from bronze decanters. Musicians in colorful ethnic attire played an assortment of traditional stringed instruments and small drums. Women with long, dark braids and charcoal eyes danced to the ancient rhythms. Slowly, a group of men began to swirl round and round, until their billowy skirts blew out like balloons in the wind. The sight of these whirling dervishes, who spin into ecstatic trances, caused my own mind to spiral; centuries-old figures from innumerable cultures emerged to dance before me. Nomad kings in silken robes, white-turbaned merchants of desert abodes, inquisitive adventurers from faraway lands, and multitudes of boisterous caravans had all marched along the Silk Road on a journey of extraordinary discovery. 
Masha Nordbye is a television director and writer who has worked and traveled through more than one hundred countries. She's currently filming around the world for the Travel Channel. For more information on Silk Route adventures, contact Geographic Expeditions in San Francisco at 800-777-8183, fax 415-346-5535, or www.info@geoex.com |
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