Kashgar - The Taklamakan Desert and Camel Trek, Part 4

Sometime in between putting the tents up, and getting a roaring fire going, we stopped for a moment to ask our guide about the impending evening’s weather. 

           “So how cold do you think it will be?” We asked, quite reasonably.

                “Don’t know. You want sleep bag?” He replied in a heavy accent.

           “Well that’s what we want to know. Do you think we need them?”

                “Don’t know. Maybe not. You want it?” I don’t think he understood the situation.

           “Okay,” we tried a different approach, “if you think we should have them, then yes, we want them.”
                “So you want them. No?” He was getting impatient.

           “Yes.”

                “Ok.” He shrugged.

Hang on. What just happened?

We didn’t know if we were getting sleeping bags. We didn’t know if he even had any. Maybe he did the tent-math again and only brought three sleeping bags for four people. And by the way, when we approached him about that he laughed heartily and then gestured between me and my male (platonic) travelling friend and then kind of bobbled his head and wiggled his eyebrows and then swaggered away. It was grotesque.  Amusing and condescending, yes. Butalso grotesque. And kind of off-putting.

Anyways, like I said, by the time the fire had consumed all our hard-scavenged wood, we were totally freezing cold right through, and pretty much ran back to our tent. I mean, I should have expected it, but some part of me still just presumed that, well, to be honest, I had just presumed we would have sleeping bags. I know I know. How can I still think in this silly manner where I expect things to go comfortably according to plan…

Well. We got into the tiny tent, zipped it up, lay down, and promptly realised that is was SERIOUSLY FUCKING COLD!!! Yeah yeah yeah. Surprise surpise. A desert in winter – cold! Shut up. We all make mistakes. Whatever.

So the next thing to do, naturally, was to try and find those damn “sleep bags”. Tom ducked out of the tent and ran to the pile of equipment near the camel saddles, and came scampering back with – yeah you guessed it – one sleeping bag. We were giggling like fools trying to unzip the damn thing and figuring out how to get the most warmth-retention from it possible. I suspect that by this stage, the cold had begun to infect our minds, and we were getting a little ridiculous. Fidgeting and shivering and giving yourself early onset arthritis by getting into the tightest curl of a fetal position humanly possible.

We had, at least, realised that it was the sand underneath us that seemed to be sucking the warmth from our blood. It was as though (to overuse the metaphor) we were sleeping on a semi-solid ocean. Seeing as how there was the equivalent of a piece of cling wrap between us and the outside (read: tents were so so so super shit) every time you moved an inch, the sand circulated and freezing cold grains seemed to replace the ones your body had just labored to warm. Like swimming in the ocean. No such thing as being able to warm a special spot and stay there. The fully opened sleeping bag gave us just enough protection from the sand underneath, and we fell into a shivering, giddy, restless sleep.

For about an hour. You know, until the temperature dropped again.

          “Are you awake?” A whispered across to Tom,

                “Yeah, and I’m-“

           “Fr- Freezing?” I stammered out.

                “So. Fucking. C- Cold.” He replied.

Yeah. In the time from 2:00 to 3:00 the temperature must have dropped by several degrees, because it was now just totally unbearable. Actually painful. My body hurt from the cold.

           “What do we do? There aren’t any more sleeping bags?” I asked him – he was on the side of the tent that opened, ergo, he was in charge of reconnaissance missions.

           “Hang on. Be – I’ll Be right back.” I heard him swearing as he squirmed out of the tent and ran. 

Ran? What else was there? My crazy head began imagining all kinds of cozy warm things. He was going to come back with an electric heater. Yes. And some hot water bottles. Yes, that was it. Also some puppies to cuddle. Yep. That is what Tom is going to come back with. No doubt. Small puppies.

What Tom actually came back with was, upon first glance, no less welcome. He had two massive thick blankets folded in his arms.

          “Where did you get those from?!?!” I asked incredulously. I might have even yelled it out, but in my defence, I thought that maybe I was actually imagining things. Then at the same moment he replied–

          “From the camel saddles- ” he shook the first blanket out, and immediately I was somehow completely overwhelmed with camel-ness. My nose was screaming at me –

          “BRI! A THOUSAND CAMELS JUST STAMPEDED INTO YOUR TENT!” That’s what my nose was telling me. The stench was unbearable. It was like being smothered in camel. What does a camel smell like? Like eight trillion wet dogs who all just vomited. That’s what camels smell like. And that’s what the blankets-from-their-backs-that-are-never-washed smell like. It is a testament to how damn cold that night was, that I covered myself in that camel blanket. Letalone appreciated it.

There is a certain humble lesson that comes to you, when as a matter of survival, you must get really smelly.

So now, with the addition of aforementioned pack-of-camels-blankets, we could sleep. It wasn’t good, it certainly wasn’t comfortable, have you ever tried sleeping on sand? Its not that comfy at all. But it was sleep. And we got a solid four hours of it.

  

 

The next morning came around, and we moved quickly to avoid to sun getting too high. Bread and apples and cookies for breakfast, then taking down the tents, kicking sand on the fire, and taking some last photos before we left. I thought for a minute about how I would never, ever in my life, return to this place. Strange feeling. Another feeling, was getting back on my camel and being sore before the riding even began. I had bruises and wobbly knees already! I felt like I’d already earnt my going-home pass, but actually I still greatly enjoyed the trip back. More time to just think and look and appreciate, and that kind of time is always welcome.

The end.

Kashgar - The Taklamakan Desert and Camel Trek, Part 3

So putting the philosophical ramblings on hold now for just a minute, I want to (more for my own documentation than anything else) actually want to describe what happened once we were on the camels.

It took about an hour of steady plodding along before we were out of earshot of the sand-dune-rally-car things, and once we were, it was totally quiet. It happened almost instantly, too, one moment we could hear the snarling engines, and then the next we couldn’t. Surprisingly, we passed a small river at around that time. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, I suppose, considering that big lake thing I talked about, but it still was, purely because I was on a camel on sand. If I ever see pictures of camels and there is some kind of body of water in the photo, I always think its fake. Naturally, the presence of that smaller river worried me, you know, is this really even a desert then? Is this some big scam? Did they just dump a heap of sand in a normal place? There were also some goats there.

No, they didn’t, and yes, it’s a real desert which is really big and naturally sandy and dry and all things desert-like. In all seriousness though, after about an hour of riding after that small river, you could not have imagined it to be possible. That such a vast and dry expanse of sandy hills could co-exist within such a (relatively) short distance from a source of running water. I wish I knew more about geography, you know, so that I could perhaps understand the way deserts and oases (plural of oasis?) and special kinds of ecosystems work. I digress. It was a real desert. Let’s continue.

So I’ll skip past the talking-about-the-riding, because in writing, the scenery gets kinda repetitious. In my head, well, you can read all about that in the last post. So I’m going to skip to the part where we stopped. I remember it very clearly because – oh wait. No I don’t. We had been riding for hours then just abruptly stopped. No catalyst. There were no markers. There were no stars to go by. There sure as hell weren’t any landmarks. So far as I could see, we went over a big sandy hill, then around a big sandy hill, and had arrived at the bottom of – oh look! – another big sandy hill. Apparently, though, this was the place we were predestined to camp at. Upon further investigation, I saw a little outcrop of crappy grass, and some sticks poking up from the ground about 500 meters away. I know, I know, it should have been obvious.

The camels got down, one by one, in their wondrously challenged way of doing so. Just to remind you of how intensely baffling these animals are, I want you to watch this youtube video of how they get up and down. I KNOW. TOTALLY WACK. Anyways, there wasn’t much light left in the day by the time we demounted, and so we thought it best to set the tents up first. (You know, as oppose to ALL the other stuff we had to do…) We were told that our guide would bring the tents, and so we didn’t give any thought to the whole actual-equipment thing. As it turned out, he had some tents. Yes. Technically they were tents. What they were not, was hardcore. What kind of tents did we need? We needed hardcore tents, dude. Why? Because in the desert in winter you get hardcore weather, dude. SO – IT IS NOT OKAY TO BRING SMALL BRIGHTLY COLOURED PLASTIC SHEET TENTS THAT ARE ONLY SUITABLE FOR A HIPPY FESTIVAL. Holy shit. I couldn’t believe it. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the sun hadn’t even set. I’m serious. These things were completely pathetic. We sent one up, and less than a minute later the wind had picked it up and swept it a few feet away. To make matters worse? The clever boy had packed three tents for four people. RARGH. Not impressed. The saving grace was that we had worn super duper warm clothes, but this was quickly turning into one of those scenarios where I get flashback memories to my impending death on that horse trek in Songpan. Not okay. SO. TOTALLY. NOT. OKAY.

Some pics from Tom's camera.

  

 

We finished setting up the third piece of tent, and decided to make the most of the dwindling light. Eerily enough, there was no real sunset. But that didn’t stop us from sashaying to the top of the nearest dune, laying out my big scarf as a blanket, and having ourselves a desert picnic. It was absolutely perfect and wonderful!!! We had all different kinds of breads and then apples and water, and some local cookies. There was something that just felt correct about eating simply at that time. In fact, the whole time we were in the desert I just had this feeling (that lasted for several days after, too) that I just didn’t want any intense food. I didn’t feel hungry like usual. I didn’t want to drink anything other than water, and I not once craved for chocolate or saltiness or oils. I almost unconsciously gave myself a kind of detox. I just really appreciated being able to appreciate the simple things. And the other senses. It sounds silly now, even to me, but it was part of the experience. It really was. 

But back to the picnic itself. About how perfect it was. I want you to do me a favour. And actually do it. I want you to think about what the word ‘perfect’ means. Really. Think about it now. For however long it takes you. To me, it means 100%. It means that there was not a single thing wrong. It means that it couldn’t have been better. In life – in the real world – no such thing exists. Ever. We make allowances, however small and subconscious they may be, and only then may we trick our brains into conceptualizing anything perfect. And that, my friends, in itself, is a miraculous thing. Our desire for happiness so strong that we might temporarily blind ourselves. My point is, in that picnic moment, I felt like things were perfect. I blinded myself to the fact that we were a little cold, and that the bread was a little stale, and that we missed the sunset. Only now, when I think back to it, can I identify these missing things that actually render that time less than perfect. When I was breathing that moment, none of it occurred to me. In that moment in time. Munching on bagels in the silence. I felt like things were perfect. 

Later on, when our bellies were full of bread and apples, it occurred to us that there was, just a few meters from our tents, a strange and small kind of outcrop of dry burnt sticks. The obvious thing to do, of course, was to; collect the sticks, make a fire, take cool long-exposure photographs, smoke a ton of cigarettes, and have deep and meaningful conversation until we couldn’t feel our fingers or noses.

So we did!

A point I would like to add here, is that I make an excellent fire. Not in a pyromaniac way, I mean in a way that I actually build the pile of sticks to make a fire. There really is a method and skill to it. It must be those hundreds of weekends spent out in the bush with my parents. (Holy shit I’m so Australian.) I don’t have too many really distinguishable or actually useful skills, but I’m going to claim this one, you know, if only because I think that fire would have even made Bear Grylls proud. You know how I feel about Bear.

 

Now, when I say “couldn’t feel our fingers or noses” that is totally what I mean… and it only got worse. But I just ate a MASSIVE bowl of porridge and I’m way tired, so I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Night!

       

Kashgar - The Taklamakan Desert and Camel Trek, Part 2

So what happened next?

We rode the camels.

And then, after a while, the situation was that we were still riding camels.

So we rode the camels further into the abyss.

Then after about two hours of riding the camels, we were still riding camels.

And then after that, we rode the camels for about another two hours.

And then I totally cramped up and couldn’t feel my legs or ass, and nearly fell off my camel.

Here is what I learnt from the experience: don’t ride a camel for four hours straight if you’ve never ridden a camel before in your life.

   

   

So I guess I’m at a bit of a loss for what to say about the desert. You know, as a destination. 

      “What is it like, Bri?”
Well, it’s sandy.

      “Cool. Anything else?”
Okay. Seriously then… it’s mesmerising.

   

   

When you descend one dune, and have not yet risen the next, and there is nothing around you but sand, you feel that feeling you get when you look up at the stars. Absolute insignificance – like the sand could swallow you up in any second, and you would be powerless to stop it. Every dune comes together to create this insurmountable area of void where there is so little life, and yet so much power.

When the wind blows and the dunes move they become waves, and you feel as though you are on a boat, in the middle of a vast and frightening ocean. You’re camel carries you in a slow, rocking motion, and you must look up to the sky to guide you. The similarities are uncanny. One place constructed of water, and the other devoid of it. Perhaps the strongest feeling to connect the two, however, is that as a human being, you are in a place almost completely out of your control. To an untrained eye, the wind can swoop in, or the moon can pull the tide out, and you’ll be gone. Just as the water and the deep planetary magnets control the ocean, the sky and the sand rule together to create the desert.

  

It is a place of serenity and yet absolute danger. Being in the middle of it is like a long, slow-motion sky dive. You’ve  jumped, and you’re pretty sure that the parachute will open, but something about the experience still makes you question your existence. What if it doesn’t open. The last few seconds of a falling skydivers life - don’t we always wonder what they think? Being in the middle of the desert gives you hours to think about it. As though those few seconds could be pulled like toffee, until you had plenty of seconds. Enough second, even, to come to certain realisations normally reserved for those near to death. 

   

 

 

  

It’s the deep kind of self-reflective thought that only a long train ride can induce, but intensified a thousand-fold, because there is nothing else to look at. As far as the eye can see - nothing but sand dunes that move like puzzles, and the sun that moves across the sky, and the occasional small lizard that scampers with silly hot feet. There is no external stimulation that can be pinpointed for the origins of the thoughts that arise when you are thinking in the desert. There is no catalyst for the wonderings, aside from your very self. The things you think about in themselves are definitions of who you are, let alone what you think about those things. Do you sit in the desert and deconstruct a failed romance? Do you sit in the desert and deconstruct your life goals? Do you sit in the desert and deconstruct Derrida and the creation of the very language with which you think and deconstruct? The desert confronts you with yourself. And at no time is this more true, than at night.

   

  

As though the desert itself wasn’t enough to make you feel small, the desert as a carpet with a thick velvet ceiling twinkling the brightest you have ever seen anything, will make you feel as though you never even existed at all. Aside from being in the middle of the ocean, there is not place in the world where you will see brighter stars, than in the desert on a clear night. They shone down, and to look at them was like looking into thousands of tiny midday suns. Even the smallest ones were definite in their shine. And the bigger ones burnt so bright they could have been flaming planets.

If I’m honest, I was kind of crying when I looked up at it. I just felt so at peace. It was as though I could feel the centuries, and I could feel the story of the earth, and I could feel time, and everything made sense. All of it was perfectly clear. There was nothing in my head to confuse the message because I just knew absolutely nothing. It was all feel. Like something much more important than myself.

  

  

I’m glad the notion didn’t strike me in a chapel, or I might have been “born again”, to coin that awkward religious phrase. As it stands though, I came away from the experience with a wonderful assurance of how profoundly ignorant I am. There is nothing that I, as a human, could ever even begin to truly comprehend about the universe, other than that which pertains to relatively insignificant and regular human existence.

It’s a miraculous thing, to be reminded of how small you are, and I recommend it to anyone suffering from a feeling of being cluttered-in-the-brain.

You don’t necessarily have to go to the middle of nowhere. Take a trip to the beach and swim in an ocean that might drown you. Take a drive into the countryside that could envelope and disappear you. Then wait until night time, and look at the stars until you can’t bear it. I can guarantee that something profound will happen to you – even if it’s just an actually good night’s sleep for the first time in a while.