Silk Road's market value

On the Silk Road, shopping is a far cry from the civilised exchanges that Western consumers are used to, as MARIEKE HILHORST discovered.

With impatient blasts of its air horn, our bus scatters two dusty shepherds and their flock of floppy-bottomed sheep off the road and into the stony riverbed. All day, flocks of sheep have dispersed in our wake as we head north along the Karakoram Highway, through high passes and brick-red mountains.

We're weary after our two-day journey from Pakistan, but these shepherds have been on the road much longer, travelling up to 400km on foot. I feel for them. Left to suck on our whirl of dust, it will take at least 30 minutes to gather their flock and get under way again - until the next impatient air horn comes through.

The magnet drawing us all is market day in Kashgar. For more than 2000 years this ancient Silk Road city in northwest China has been a focus for traders from Kyrgyzstan, Pakistan, Kazakhstan and Russia, who come to barter and argue and sell their wares.

The name "Silk Road" suggests a single trading route, but it is in fact a generic term for many ancient passages between China and the West. Foreign merchants astride horses and camels came in search of treasures, which they bundled in animal skins and varnished sackcloth and carried west through the desert.

Human and animal bones, horse and camel dung were often the only road markings through vast tracts of sand, and several of the ancient cities along the silk routes still lie buried beneath the shifting dunes. Kashgar sits on the central spoke of the modern silk routes - one winds to the north, another to the south.

While every day is market day somewhere in the city, the big event is Sunday. Kashgar is not the only Silk Road city to hold a weekly market, but it is the most renowned. Each summer weekend the population balloons by 50,000 people as traders and tourists arrive.

On Saturday, hotels erect their "no vacancy" signs and the streetside food vendors do a brisk trade in mutton kebabs, roasted duck necks, chilli whelks and the ubiquitous flat rounds of Uyghur bread. Our attempt at a kerb-side meal runs into a sudden sandstorm that whips and stings, turning the sunny scene into shades of brown. Everything is gritty - ears, eyes, nose and teeth - and we bale out for an indoor eatery. By the time we emerge, replete, the storm has passed.

By sunrise on Sunday the sky is clear and the roads are awash with walkers, cycles, donkey carts, motorcycles, trucks and tuk-tuks heading for the marketplace. There are cries of "boish, boish" ("out of my way, coming through").

Bypassing the stalls selling hats made of arctic fox fur, bolts of velvet cloth, plumbing supplies, winter-weight nylons, and dried scorpions, we head straight for the livestock market.

It's 7.30am and the walled yard is already nearly full. Outside, a queue of trucks, tractors and carts full of sheep, goats and cattle push impatiently to enter the arena. Their drivers shove and shout their way through the narrow gates and somehow mesh into the random jigsaw of livestock and vehicles.

The yard fills slowly with lines of animals tethered tightly to stakes, panting, though the full heat of the day has yet to arrive. Men with tall hats and thin sticks smack the rumps of donkeys to keep them in line. A camel protests an unwelcome tug on its nose ring, its head brought low for a check of its huge green teeth.

Next door, a small group of horses munch corn stalks and stamp away flies. Except for one poor animal which is whipped through its paces in a ruthless test-drive to impress possible buyers. There's nothing subtle about its frothing mouth and swollen tongue, yanked savagely to make steep turns at high speed. The sort of thing you can't stop, and therefore can't bear to watch.

The yaks, tucked away down the back of the yard between truck trailers and building supplies, are less energetic. No one seems interested in them today.

A truck manages to push through the gate in a billow of blue smoke, its deck packed with huge bulls. There is an art to unloading these animals, reluctant in the face of a long drop to the ground. One man swings on a rope tied round its horns, another prods from behind, and finally the largest bull's feet slip and it half leaps, half falls to the ground with surprising elegance. The next one off is not so graceful, it falls heavily and squashes its genitals. Spectators grimace and its eyes roll.

Along the middle of the yard the floppy bottomed sheep are tied, head-to-head in herringbone rows, while owners clip rumps in a last-minute tidy-up. Little piles of curly wool litter the ground and there's a constant sound of shears being sharpened. Nearby, three freshly butchered carcasses are cut up for kebabs and the smell of barbecued mutton fat hangs in the air.

As the day warms up, so does the bargaining and any deal going down attracts a keen crowd. It seems good sport, with loud argument erupting into a vigorous and prolonged shaking of hands and smiling faces all round.

I wonder if our dusty shepherds from yesterday got their flock to market in time. And I reflect that although camera-toting foreigners are everywhere, this market is most certainly not a tourist event. It's part of these people's lives, and has been for centuries. Its rituals and traditions are an enigma. I'm the outsider, and sometimes I'm just in the way among the sea of hats and donkey ears, dust and dung, noisy bargainers and stoic animals.

By the time we leave the yard, pushing against the tide of trucks and animals still coming through the gateway, I've been winded by a crumpled horn, my right trouser leg is covered in calf dung, and my toes bear the mark of many cloven hooves.

Beyond the walls we discover the "off-Broadway" livestock market for those too late or too lazy to battle the crush. Among the cabbages and onions, sheep and donkeys change hands and a man cycles by with 30 live chickens hanging from his handlebars, trussed by the legs. A little further up the road is the dog and cat section.

In a day for sharp operators and sharp deals, my prize for the sharpest is the opportunistic donkey quietly helping itself to cabbages off the back of its neighbour's cart.

Casenotes

How to get there

We flew to China via Hong Kong, care of Cathay Pacific and Dragon Air. Cathay Pacific offers daily flights out of Auckland; Dragonair flies from Hong Kong to 27 destinations in China. We landed at Chengdu (home of panda bears) and flew from there to Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang.

Who can help

Silk Road Adventures New Zealand organised our travel contact in Xinjiang.

Silk Road Adventures

When to go

Summers in the northwest run from May to August and can be fiercely hot. Turpan, a city 150m below sea level has maximum temperatures of 47C - the washing is dry before it gets hung out. Because winters are fiercely cold, guidebooks recommend spring (April) and autumn (September to November) as the best times to visit, though you should be prepared for rain.