Along the Silt Route-that's NOT a spelling mistake

  Lanzhou, China
Friday, July 22, 2005

Thursday 14 July- Urumqi - Turpan
DP has a bit of a go at breakfast, and MP take a stopper pill. Traffic is jammed pretty solid outside, but manage to get a taxi OK. Misunderstanding about the taxi-meter, MP insisting, he use it, when he was going to use it anyway. Girl on the desk had written a funny 7 plus a squiggle, which was enough with DP reading out the name. Flag fall was only 6, but racked up to nearly 12 by the time we had gone the long way to avoid the traffic. Still a lot better than from the closer station to the hotel. At the bus station, find the tourist help window, but directed to the Turpan window, and buy seats on the 10.20am bus (buses go every 20 minutes for the two and a half hour trip). MP visits the particularly disgusting and public loo, then find our bus, load bags and aboard. As usual, our seats are opposite sides of the aisle, so make an executive choice, and occupy the two seats on the left, a bad choice it turns out because we were looking forward at the driver's sun screen.
We left town by slow, rough back streets, with decrepit factories and buildings. Got onto the expressway outside the town, and continued under expressway conditions most of the way to Turpan. A lot of the scenery was the same as on the way in, only backwards. Gibber desert, steep, rough, bare mountains, occasional oases of vines and poplar trees, depressing strings of roadside business, some in decaying mud brick, others in white tils showing the signs of old age and poor workmanship. Some interesting gorge scenery where the road went a different way to the railway. Passing the rail junction of Daheyan, a long way upslope on the gibber desert, we could see the land dropping away as far as the haze would allow, into the Turpan Depression. (A place, not a state of mind). Photo of oilfields.

Closer to Turpan, the land was definitely greener, with extensive grape plantings, some paddy rice, the usual poplars. We saw a lot of rectangular buildings made of mud-brick ventilated screenwork, possibly for drying sultanas, or the weird looking whitish strip of melon. The town itself was quite large (even though only 56,000 people) with factory buildings and a lot of white tile official buildings, Classic wide Chinese streets. At 154 metres below sea level, it's the second lowest depression in the world (after the Dead Sea) and the hottest spot in China - the highest recorded temperature here was 49.6C.
On arrival we were set upon by a would-be guide, hotel and transport provider. He gave us a range of prices and locations, suggested we look at the Traffic Hotel, right in the bus station, for Y150. Looked OK, in spite of its noisy reputation. Moved in, then headed out to continue dickering with him. It turned out that he was attached to the tourist agency on the first floor, so comparisons of his prices with minibus tours didn't yield much info. As we were discussing costs and itineraries, Christof and Olga turned up (how many times have we said a final goodbye?), gave us their impressions of a few of the sites and sights. Their overall impression was that it was unbelievably hot, and the sights weren't all that flash. The actual entry costs to the sites are so high, the cost of transport is only one factor. We finally decide on Y300 for a 5-site afternoon tour, to see the Flaming Mountain end of the tourist area first, then the closer sites.
We find out about the bus to Hami, and get our guide to organise the tickets for tomorrow. Now about 2pm. First taken to a Uighur restaurant, and get two giant plates of cold noodle, and two plates of meat, onion and tomato. Sent one of each back, as far too much. MP had a little, DP had a fair whack -surprisingly tasty, but a bit risky in such a hot place.
In typical style, our English speaker leaves us with his trusty driver and departs. We are used to this, but are a bit surprised to find the van is not air conditioned, and the wind coming in the windows is like straight out of an oven. (Today's forecast was 26-43 degrees C, and it's AT LEAST THAT). Out on the expressway heading east, we find it is better to almost close the windows, just letting a breeze through. We have stocked up on cold water and Coke, and are getting into it at a fair rate.
We pass the Flaming mountains on the way, but it is fairly overcast, and a bit late in the day, so they don't flame, barely smolder. Our first site is the village of Tuyoq, an Uighur village that has been a pilgrimage site for Muslims for centuries. It's about 30 km from town, tucked away at the entrance to a gorge in the Flaming Mountains. It is approached through irrigated grape fields and relatively new villages, and is nicely set out around an outcrop from the main range. Pay our 30 Yuan each entry, and walk around the perimeter road, above the irrigation canal. Can see grape fields stretching away to the west, and ancient mud brick houses inside the road.

The houses all have large, airy courtyards, or garages, depending on their current use, and some families are lunching in the cool (relative, that is). Outside, we keep to the shade of the trees or walls. Walk to the end of the village, see that we can't walk around, so go back to the main side street, where a group of men are lounging in the shade around some motorbikes.
Head uphill between the houses, hard work in the heat, and see a climbing road which might take us back to the start of the village. By this time we have seen two tourist girls with umbrellas against the sun, so MP is using our remaining one, and DP makes do with her floppy hat. At a crest in the road, we can see across to the walled mosque on the side of the gorge opposite. This is the pilgrimage site for Uighur Moslems, a sort of poor man's Mecca.

We can also look down on a group of youths making the best of a brick cistern which the irrigation channel flows through, making a swimming hole. They ham it up for a photo. No signs of a girl's swimming hole.
From here we can see a path leading to the gorge, which has a barrage across it, and a wooden walkway on the far side leading back to the ticket office and car park. Near the barrage is a raised boadwalk on our side leading up the canyon, presumably to where there are some Buddhist caves, but we only walk as far as some good shade, and sit down to recover from the heat and have a drink. Walk back over a bridge across the stream at the barrage, along the boadwalk, which also has timbers to prop up the crumbling soft rock shelf over our heads. Walk back through a different section of the village and up to the Car park, where we have a welcome rest in front of the cooler in the ticket office before stepping into our mobile furnace for the long leg back to town, and 11 km the other side to our second site, the ancient city of Jiaohe. With the windows almost closed, we don't cook quite as much, get into our water, and survive. We don't want to get out at the "Flaming Mountains" theme park, Camel Lot, and tourist trap, but take a photo of something which looks like a capped boiled egg, with a post in the middle, marked as a thermometer

Maybe it was one, but, in spite of most of the clocks in the 5-clock hotels showing Beijing time correctly, we really didn't expect it to be working, accurately or not. Chinese cutting edge technology is a bit like that.
At Jiaohe, we were really ready for the Y3 frozen water bottles, paid our 40 Yuan each entry, and walked off down the river, only to be shouted at to cross the river and head up hill on a brick path through a cutting in a 15-metre high clay bank. It seemed even hotter here than the last place, and we struggled from one "shade" patch to the next, up onto a flat, oval area about a km long, on which could be seen the remains of buildings cut from the clay back in the Han Dynasty period. You had to use a fair bit of imagination on the closer ruins, and most were out of bounds for safety reasons, but those in the distance looked like real, if roofless buildings.

The extent of the ruins was impressive, and because of the age of the Chinese language, they have records of who lived where in it, but any sort of detail was lacking, and soaking up the ambience of hot, hot, stinking hot, didn't appeal, so we headed back for another icy water, and back into the van to head for the Karez, or underground water channel. The karez is a peculiarly Central Asian means of irrigation that can be found in Xinjiang, Afghanistand and Iran. Xinjiang has great underground reservoirs of water. The Uighurs dig a karez, known as the "head well" on higher ground, where snowmelt from the mountains collects (in Turpan's case, the Bogda Mountains). A long underground tunnel is then dug to conduct this water down to the village farmland. A whole series of vertical wells, looking from above like giant anthills, are dug every 20 metres along the path of this tunnel to aid construction and provide access. The wells are fed entirely by gravity, thus eliminating the need for pumps, and reducing water loss from evaporation.
This is Chinese tourism at its "best", a large, overpowering facade with steps leading down to an underground display of the features of the Karez. Pay our 20 Yuan each (another feature of Chinese tourism). There is a scale model of the mountains and sloping desert down to the fertile irrigated area, display of typical access holes, windlasses, digging tools. The water channel you cross at the entrance becomes more like an underground channel as you walk upstream, with the channel itself waterproofed with cement-set round stones, and the arch above just formed in the natural ground without support or protection. Various heroic proportion bronze workers were seen digging and cleaning the passage.

At the very end, where the real Karez emerged from a blank wall, ,the proportions of the channel could be seen, less than a metre wide, with the water 30 cm deep, and enough headroom from the bottom of the channel for a man to stoop but not stand. At ground level, the walk back to the start was past poplar trees planted at the water level, and growing up through clearance holes in the roof. Hard to tell if this was authentic practice, but the trees were pretty well established, so maybe this is how they line the channels with poplars when the channel is underground.
The air was pleasantly cool underground, so we recovered sufficiently to proceed to the next site, the famous Emin Minaret of Turpan, Out of town the other side, along an irrigation channel which look like it has just been turned on for the day, and people are washing, watering and generally enjoying the coolness in the afternoon. The minaret dates from 1777, and is beautifully proportioned in a tapering curve with a spherical top, about 30 metres high, of mud bricks set at different angle and depths to give a patterned and textured appearance.

The minaret has some interesting iron bands around it about halfway up, and is too fragile for tourists to use it regularly. The attached mosque is also of mud brick construction, but the flat, tapered walls are faced with a straw/clay render, which is quite smooth, but not all that well attached to the underlying structure. Pay our 30 Yuan each. We are allowed to climb the stairs to the roof level of the mosque, and get some good photos of the minaret, the ancient ruin nearby, and the additional structures, gardens, pavilions and fences the Chinese have felt necessary to "beautify" the site.
Back at the Traffic Hotel about 8pm, we shower and go to ground before heading out to find John's Information Cafe. We are adopted by a group of young Hong Kong students on summer holiday, also going to John's, and we have a real conversation with them on the way. They stay outside, deciding on what they were going to eat, and where they were going to go, and how much they could get the price down to, while we had chips.
On the way back, we talked to a chemist, trying to replace our Noroxin tablets, without luck, although did find a "stopper" powder, but decided we weren't that desperate. Bought some drink supplies for the night, and hit the sack. The first half went OK, but in the early am MP felt increasingly cold and needed all the blankets, and warm socks. Woke DP to be nurse, administering anti-dehydration, panadol and sponge baths to get the temperature down (it was 40). After a long while, the fever improved, but neither got too much sleep. As he had been on antibiotics for two days, and the diarrhoea was under control, decided that it was probably a bit of heat stroke. Soon after, DP then succumbs to the loo urge, and we weren't sure what our next move would be. We want to go to Dunhuang next, where the famous Mogao Buddhist Caves are. However are guidebook is very scanty on information to get there. We can have a short bus trip, followed by a train (possibly at night, and probably without a bed), followed by another short bus trip; or we can get a bus the whole way, which seems easier to us. We have gleaned that we would get a bus to Hami, stay the night, then get another the next day. The only problem is we know NOTHING about Hami - no idea whether it is a small town or a major city!
Friday 15 July - Turpan - Hami
DP wants to leave it as late as possible for the alarm, but MP up before it, wanting to see the lay of the land before making any big decisions. Both not feeling TOO bad, and it is a relatively cold day and overcast, and both of us want to get the HELL out of Turpan, so decide to go ahead with the bus trip and take the risk of having to ask or bribe the bus driver to stop for emergency relief. No breakfast, DP takes a "stopper", and MP out to buy drinks and some bananas for the trip, while DP negotiates the deposit return. Find the bus and get reasonably good seats up near the front of the bus. In these buses, this is important as the windows are fixed and heavily tinted, to say nothing of dirty. The glass is so dark, the usual good photos out of the windows are not possible because the shutter speed is so slow.
The people on the bus seem pretty friendly, even though there are no English speakers. The man in the seat in front has a young, toddler daughter who is shared around the bus, but he looks after her pretty well when he has her. We get the "Aodaliya" (Chinese for Australia) message across to most in our area, including the woman beside the man and daughter, who really wants to talk.
We are repeating a fair bit of yesterday's trip. There must have been a dust storm during the night, as there is very little visibility, although it has had the very welcome effect of reducing the temperature enormously. As we pass the Flaming Mountain, we can just see the camels, with the mountains only a vague shadow behind. At least we did see them smoulder, if not flame. We had our first comfort stop shortly after, but a bit soon for pre-emptive toileting, then carried on through a passage in the Flaming Mountains, and into a repeat of the previous day - gibber desert, stark mountains, transitions from desert to agriculture and back again, and god-forsaken wayside truckstops and villages.
Our final rest stop was in the most barren, windswept howling desert we could imagine, a single building which could have been a cafe, with men lounging disinterestedly outside on the Chinese version of a charpoy, covered in torn-up cardboard boxes, and a brick toilet from hell out the back.

The men wisely decided to use the wide open spaces, while a couple of women used the toilet, but DP led a group of the younger and more sophisticated out into the wilderness, after not being able to get closer than thirty feet to the building before almost gagging from the smell. We have written in detail about Chinese toilets in our 2001 diary (when we spent three months in China), and this trip has confirmed that they are still the worst in the world!
By this stage, we are feeling a bit more confident of hanging in, and start considering our Hami options.
The woman in the next seat has decided to take charge of us, and as we enter Hami proper, points out the station, and what we think she says is the bus station for Dunhuang. We remember what it looked like, then hang in for a long while, through wide, modern without being first-world streets, to the bus station. We also ask her if she knows a hotel, and she asks what price range we are talking, and we indicate 100 to 200.
When we get off the bus, she greets her family, then tells them to wait, and she will sort us out. Takes us through the terminal and right to an imposing 14-storey hotel. Lots of clocks, uniformed door-persons, woman in chic suit behind the desk, list of high denomination room rates on the wall. The rack rate is 380, ambit claim is 268, but our lady gets it for us for 238, which is reasonable, so we go with it. She wants to take us for a meal, which is the last thing we want after our bad night. Eventually under pressure, we succumb and say yes. She comes up to the room, comes in while we settle, uses the loo, then we all head out for a meal. We have been unable to get across that we are crook in the guts, and don't want much at all (we don't have one word of common language - all conversation is via the phrase book, where we all point to a suitable phrase or word!). We get a taxi to an Uighur restaurant where she is known, and sit inside to wait for some "small meals". We are presented with a mound of savoury rice on a large plate, with a sheep shank on top, and a dozen skewers of lamb kabob, plus green tea in big bowls. Don't have any real choice but get on with it. Eat as little as we can without being rude, even though it was quite tasty, and most of the meat tasted fresh and crispy grilled. She ended up taking a doggy bag of the skewered meat, so it wasn't a dead loss, probably cost her Y30.
Back in another taxi, we drive a long way across town, no idea which direction, to the Mausoleum of the Hami Uighur Royal Family. Since the restaurant, she has been explaining that she is Uighur, and has very little time at all for the Han-Zu, Han Chinese carpetbaggers. We're surprised just how strongly she felt about them. The mausoleum is an indicator that the Uighurs were a powerful people once, and this is important to them.
We insist on paying the Y20 for tickets, but she doesn't want to go in, just tees us up with the Senior English-speaking guide and her offsider. The site is quite interesting, with some delicately made timber grillwork structure, ancient trees, and a large mosque with a forest of timber columns and a large grill-work roof ventilator.

The Uighur Princes were the local feudal lords under the Qing Dynasty, and as a reward for putting down a revolt, in 1697 Erbedulla became the first "duke" with hereditary rights. They ruled in 9 generations up to 1930, and they were a stabilising force in Xingiang.
This is pretty flash for a town which we thought had maybe 2 or more million (but later found, after doing a "google" that it had 300,000 - certainly not the population density of further East) which doesn't get a mention in the guide.
After the tour, our lady was sitting inside the compound, and talked to the guides about getting to Dunhuang. Unlike our lady, who thought there was no bus, they knew that you could get an 8.30 bus in the morning from the main bus station. This solidified our planning as we were right there in our hotel, and didn't need to brave the train ticket system. As part of this exchange, it turns out that the offsider has much better English than her boss.
Walking along the road in search of a taxi, we come upon a 3-wheelcart full of watermelon. DP decides her time has come, and wants one. Our lady helps with the selection and negotiation, and when DP insists on paying the Y5 for a good sized one, she negotiated one of the small yellow melon to be thrown in.
After another taxi-ride back to the bus station, she negotiates the ticket buy, we pay, and bid her a fond farewell outside the bus station. By this time DP has put the watermelon in the backpack. Our friend is amused by the concept of discretion when passing the front desk.
By now, using nothing but sign language, the phrase book and guide book, we have found out that she is a sales director, has been to Turpan on a one-day business trip, has a husband and daughter, and is an Uighur nationalist at heart. The friendly help must have cost her at least Y50, plus standing up her husband and daughter on her return, but she was happy to do it out of sheer goodwill.
As it turned out, we would have found that there was a bus from the main bus station, and we would have found a hotel, but not as good and convenient, but probably cheaper. Depending on the result of the Uighur food, we had emerged from a potentially embarrassing situation pretty well.
The hotel was the first in China with no obvious rough edges, probably 4 stars by anyone's scale. However the basin plumbing did leak, and the bath diverter needed the strength of ten to operate it. There were extensive views of the town from our floor and windows, limited only by the visibility, but you could see where the green ended and the desert started in most directions.

Still no CCTV9 (the new Chinese channel that is all in English) on the box, but a good night's sleep with a variety of bed clothes to counter the central air conditioning which didn't take notice of the thermostat and controls.
Saturday 16 July Hami - Dunhuang
Out at 8 for the 8.30 bus. MP out to find the bus, DP to hang round waiting for the all-clear from the room attendant before getting the deposit back. MP loads the gear among carton of pears, then waits for DP to get back from a drink and cake expedition. There is a fair bit of milling about outside the bus, but our tickets are checked off on the list OK, and we make a few trips in and out without problems. By 8.30 we are ready to go, but there are still loud discussions between a short haired Uighur woman and the Chinese uniformed ticket checker with the clipboard. There seem to be enough seats for everyone, but something is not right, and the tickets are checked half a dozen times, some people are shifted, but no offenders are caught, and we get underway about 10 minutes late, after a lot of shouting.
We are out of Hami pretty quickly, into similar scenery to the day before. The road is not as good, but some is still tollway, and the short-haired woman produces the cash for the tolls. We know now she is not only a loud-mouth, she is an official one. We are up the rear half of the bus, with dark blue window, and a limited view forward, so there will be no great photographs today.
We take a long time to pass a line of about 50 new all-wheel drive, high clearance army trucks, being delivered by civilians. The greenery recedes into semi-desert, then the real thing, miles of flat gibber desert with the occasional ridge or mesa.

We pass some mining or rock crushing operations from the bad old days of the Chinese economy, and drop off people at some pretty desperate places. The wind is blowing hard, yet not raising dust from the gibber desert. It is enough to make the bus pretty unstable passing big trucks.
We get an idea of how we are travelling when we cross the main railway line, then not long after, come upon a massive construction project, taking a new railway line over the highway, with an embankment at least 10 metres high, and a viaduct span big enough for a divided highway when they get it. The road has been 2-lane, with an uneven surface, and potholes. This is the main highway west, and is like it for at least 300km, so they are certainly planning ahead.
At what has to be the road junction for Liuyuan, to which you get the train, described as "a forlorn little town" in the guide book, we can imagine the scene hopping off the train, and are glad we avoided this option. We have seen a lot of such towns, and don't relish the idea of being stuck in one. We stop for a while, and take the option of visiting the loo behind the service station, which is amazingly good for around here, being a raised dry long drop, with the desert breeze blowing through, so you are not asphyxiated by the smell.
From the loo, we can hear the sound of raised voices 200 metres away. When we get back, find it is an argument between the conductress of the loud voice, and an elderly Chinese woman, who has a timid-looking husband and a young daughter or grandchild. DP won't come away from the door, trying to find what is wrong, but eventually all get into the bus after a number of people including the driver getting involved in the argument. The old woman sits defiantly in the conductress' s seat while we take off, with the husband beside her, and the daughter crying somewhere. 200 metre up the road, we stop, there is a lot of last-word yelling, and they depart. Seems to be a lot of argument and delay for 200 metres without baggage.
Closer to Dunhuang, we come gradually upon the predicted greenery, starting with isolated prickle bushes, then short grass and stunted trees, and then irrigated fields, with rows of maize dividing field of potatoes, grain and possibly soy beans. We come to a town, thinking it might be our stop, but the kilometer marker indicate 20 to go, so back into desert before repeating the green change for Dunhuang.
it is a big, sprawling town, without the high-rise of Hami. Looks like an agricultural town, with lots of workshops along the roads. Seem to do a number of twists and turns before arriving at the bus station.
We have decided on one of the recommended budget hotel, so ignore spruiker, especially after Turpan. Find it and book in, paying 120 yuan for a larger room, rather than 100 for the small room. It is supposed to have A/C and hot water, 7/24. We find that this means we don't get any till 9, possibly off at 12.
Arrive about 3.30, sleep for about an hour, then out to look for a cheap mini-van to the sand dunes and Crescent Moon Lake. None of the vans were filling up, all hanging out for a killing. Were able to pin one man down to Y10 one way, but decided it was too early, and too hot, so headed back to Shirley's cafe for a good plate of chips, and excellent sauteed string beans (Dianne had seen the beans growing, so knew they'd be a good bet).Talked to a couple of French women for a while, then went to find our man with his van.
A pretty quick ride to the sandhill, crossing a big, full irrigation channel on the way, then driving down a 4 km 6 lanes wide avenue with trees and large bell-motif lights every 20 metres each side, say 400 total, a big investment leading to a tourist trap
One kilometer from the sandhill, we passed a massive imperial Chinese style building, quite new, thought it must be another of the tourist traps lining this avenue, but it is the Dunhuang Shanzhuang Hotel, apparently a genuine US$100 a night international standard hotel with a Silk Road theme. Interested to learn if their plumbing works.
We have to stop a fair way from the sandhills, and can only just see them through the haze. Cross to the far side of the road to avoid the row of hawker's stands, and walk up to have a look through the bars of the gate before stumping up 40 yuan each for a closer look at some sandhills we can already see from here. With the haze in the air, you are only going to see about two layers, and, having climbed big sandhills before, we know not only are we in no shape to do a climb, there would be no view when we got there.
There are dune buggies, four wheelers, jeeps, tour-sized golf carts, camel rides, and even an ultra-lite buzzing overhead, in classic Chinese Park style.

No sitting and contemplating the solitude of the desert here, so take photos and forget going in today. Maybe it will be clearer tomorrow.
We would still like to get some sand between our toes, so follow the guide book advice and walk right, up a driveway which seems to belong to the Overseas Chinese Home. This took us past the camel training area, where we took photos of the weird floppy humps on the Bactrian camels,

and watched a young camel being trained to kneel by having its front leg hauled off the ground by a rope over its neck, and getting used to having a man on its back while in the crouched position. All over the world, the commands seem to sound the same. Maybe they are talking Camel.
We walk through the grounds, and get directed toward the sandhill by a girl worker, but encounter the fence, and have to walk a couple of hundred metres through the orchards before reaching a workshop area, and a place where the fence climbs up the sandhill. Here there are a couple of decrepit looking chinese dragons, maybe 15 metres long, perched on the slope, all wire ribs and remnant plastic covering. There is a family group here climbing up towards the fence, and we follow, remembering instantly how hard it is to climb up hills of dry sand. The 20 metres up to the fence is plenty (the highest peak is 1715 metres high). There is a uniformed guard sitting on the other side of the fence, which goe son forever, so we take photos and retire back to the front gate.
There is a #3 bus waiting. We have seen a number of these, so figure it is a popular route. Point out the Bus station name in Mandarin to the driver. He sort-of says OK, but points to the destination board, which we can't read. As there is about 4 km dead straight of avenue, we figure we can't go far wrong, get in and pay Y2. He takes his time, but eventually gets away at walking pace. Continues down the wide avenue, past an argument between a civilian car and a taxi, picks up a little speed then coasts all the way to the bottom of the hill, before entering the service road and picking up his first passenger, opening the door with a string, letting it close under its own momentum. We panic for a while when he splits off the main road, but eventually turns left and we get out right beside our hotel. Another win for the wily traveller!
We have another rest, then out to look for internet. The recommended place has about 20 alcoves, about half a dozen occupied, but they insist there is no internet. Can't say if it is server trouble, satellite,or sheer cussedness, but we are forced to check out the town after dark, buy some expensive, wrapped peaches for Y2 each in a dark, interesting alley, full of ethnic eating stalls, tasty but dangerous.
Returned to the Y5 internet at Shirleys, with some very ordinary results. The computer was slow, didn't seem to have any Office or similar programme, and wouldn't work the National Bank website, and asked lots of questions in Mandarin.,
While we were emailing, a dust storm blew through, making it hard to see the other side of the street, but didn't last long.
Set the alarm for 7.30, but woken by an SMS from Jerry at about 6.30, and figured we might as well get up and check our health. Not a bad night considering the fight with the inscrutable air conditioning controller and the timer on the standard fan.
Sunday 17 July Dunhuang- Mogao Caves- Dunhuang
On the way down town DP is accosted by a woman outside the hotel where the buses are supposed to load for the caves, makes her a Y20 each deal she can't resist. Organise tickets, and check out Johns Information cafe, but too early, same at Shirley's, so settle for fried egg, toast and jam at the Friendship cafe, next to Shirleys. The breakfast is good, and three young Americans across the aisle are drinking yoghurt, which reminds us that this was our drink of choice last China trip. Still pretty good. Into bus with a 60ish Aus guy from Wollongong, on his second trip to China, plus a couple of Swiss, probably honeymooners by their behaviour, and assorted other nationalities. The guide woman chattered nonstop to the Chinese she had organised in the front of the car, and ignored everyone else. Started off heading north on a major road under construction, then east onto a narrower, but good quality road past the airport straight to the caves.
It was quite cold and overcast with a hint of rain, which seems to be the pattern after a dust storm. MP assumed it would warm up, and cracked hardy for the morning, but it didn't improve. Visibility was very poor, could hardly see the sandhills 5 km from town.
The caves are dug into a cliff along a major dry river bed coming out of the mountains. The vertical cliff is about 30 metres high, sloping back at the top to two or three times this, in loose gravel and sand. From a distance you can see a lot of openings, and some big scaffolding erections,

but the main tourist area is screened by a closely planted grove of poplar trees. We park in the main car park next to the souvenir shops, get our tickets and make our way about 500 metres to the cloak room and entrance, possibly 15 minutes late for the English language tour, but by the time we check the bag, but not the camera or Palm Pilot, there is an "English Speaking" guide ready for us. His English is pretty ordinary, but he gets most of the picture across. A lot of the presentation involves lament and accusation about the scrolls and documents knocked off by the various Western archaeologists, and now in overseas museums. An American, in particular, gets a hard time about taking patches of fresco off with glue. The missing patches are highlighted.
The facades of the caves are heavily reconstructed, mainly in exposed aggregate concrete, with only a couple of authentic, if not original porticos remaining.

The size of the site is impressive (there are about 490 caves), the state of preservation of the decorations impressive, but you have to be really into Buddhism, or Buddhist art, to get really excited. The colours are pretty drab, the lighting to view them a collection of torch spotlight, and the quality of sculpture typically ordinary, stylised Buddhist. The first cave was founded in AD 366. From this it developed into an important cente of Buddhist learning and worship, and at its peak housed 18 monasteries, and over 1400 monks and nuns. Wealthy traders and important officials were the primary donors responsible for creating new caves. Following the collapse of trading along the Sink Road after the Yuan dynasty, they lay forgotten for centuries amid the sands of the Gobi Desert.
After the tour, we try to take some photos of the outside (photos inside are strictly prohibited), but it is difficult because of the screen of trees,

but manage at least to get an impression of the place, which is mainly Chinese park with caves on the side. The exhibition centre with reconstructed caves and actual relics was in some ways better than the cave themselves, as you could see your hand in front of your face, and the colours under some decent light.
Ready to leave at 12.30,standing out of the rain at the souvenir shop. Back to town in 30 minutes, only fair lunch of chips and soup at John's. Give the rail booking office a miss, rest in the room, too cold and raining to go to the sand hills. Internet and Shirleys for chicken and vegetable shared meal. Set alarm for bus in the morning.