A sweltering breeze kissed my face as I tiredly dragged my suitcase out of the air-conditioned premises of Turpan North Railway Station. 38°C was the updated temperature reading displayed on my phone’s home screen. Not too bad, I thought. Then I realized it was quarter past six in the morning and the sun had barely risen yet.
Located at an altitude of 155 meters below sea level and well over 2000 kilometers away from the nearest coast, it comes to little surprise that the Turpan Depression of China’s vast Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region continuously breaks records as the country’s hottest region. In summer, it is not rare for temperatures to climb to 50°C, a temperature widely considered to be unsuitable for human life. Despite this, Turpan is an unmissable stop among Silk Road travelers. The city has been an important cultural hub since the early years of the Silk Road and boasts some of the region’s most spectacular landscapes. Furthermore, it is China’s capital of grapes, from where the country’s finest fresh fruits and raisins originate. Hence, I decided to make Turpan my first stop in Xinjiang after leaving behind the fascinating sights of Ningxia and Gansu Provinces. Little did I predict the detrimental impact this scorching hot place would have on my heart.
It took not long for a taxi to pick me up and drop me off at the only accommodation approved to host foreigners in town, a youth hostel in a tiny neighborhood called Grape Town. Once I entered the small settlement outside of the main city I found myself in another world: the narrow main street I entered on was lined with quaint stone buildings and historic mosques. Old men were sleeping on wooden bed frames covered in Turkish-style carpets and embroidered pillowcases in front of their homes, taking in the last few hours of temperatures below 40°, and the only bustle in this town stemmed from the few street vendors who were awake at this early hour to bake flatbread in large round stone ovens before the town itself turned into an oven. Hungry from the long journey, I followed the sweltering heat of one of the ovens and asked one vendor if he had anything ready to eat. In response to my question, he just stared at me with his big blue eyes wide open and confusedly repeated: “Chi de?” It was then that I realized that many people in this Uyghur-majority area spoke little to no Chinese!
That was my first shock. My second shock was when I finally checked into the hostel dormitory and was met with the diverse faces and stories of my roommates: a European girl with blonde hair and pinkish sun-burnt skin, who had traveled all the way by road from the Netherlands; a middle-aged Japanese woman who had just quit her architecture job in Tokyo to travel the world; a jolly Vietnamese girl in her early twenties, who like myself, was in her last year of university in China and wanted to use this summer break to explore the country; an American English teacher who traveled for the first time after spending the entire pandemic in Hangzhou; and a friendly Han-Chinese man from Shandong, who had relocated to Xinjiang many years ago to start his own farm away from the bustle of the city life. After having spent the past month traveling across significantly more touristic regions of China without meeting any other foreigners on my way, I was taken aback by the diversity of travelers in this rather obscure corner of the country. But that is the charm of the Silk Road, I came to realize.
“Welcome to Xinjiang!” the Uyghur lady at the reception enthusiastically welcomed me in surprisingly flawless English. “Feel free to explore all of Turpan area by shared taxi. Just inform me about your plans an evening in advance and we’ll gather a group of tourists to split the costs with!” It did not take long for a small group to form among us travelers and soon enough, the Dutch, the Japanese, the Vietnamese, and I decided to book a taxi to all the major sights around the city for the next morning. “Since you all are foreigners, I decided to pair you up with a driver who knows some English,” the receptionist announced.
However, once the driver arrived I quickly realized that “some English” was a gross understatement. Rafiq Jan*, as our driver introduced himself, spoke fluent English, which he claimed to have all learned during one semester at a tourism development academy in Xi’an. He was a middle-aged father of three, married to his wife since age seventeen, as his father had pressured him upon discovering he had been seeing a girl, and worked as a full-time driver for tourists while managing a small grape farm in his free time. His wife offered homestay experiences and Uyghur cooking classes whenever she was not too busy with her job or taking care of their high-school-aged children.
“Welcome to Turpan, the hottest place in China!” Rafiq Jan announced as we entered the highway leaving the small town. On the left, you can see the Aiding Lake, one of the few lakes in the world that lie below sea level, as well as the beginnings of the Tian Shan Mountain Range, he said while pointing at a snow-capped peak in not-so-far distance. Snow in China’s hottest district? How is this possible? I wondered to myself. However, my thoughts were soon interrupted as we entered the surroundings of the majestic Flaming Mountains. My jaw dropped as we became engulfed by the rugged red mountains that truly resembled flames, but instead of Hell, these flames appeared like a manifestation of Heaven.
“Woah, what a deep gorge!” the Vietnamese exclaimed as suddenly the mountains to our left split into two halves, opening up to the deep abyss that threatened to swallow any souls that dared to get too close.
“Let’s stop here to film some Tiktoks!” she urged the driver.
While I was initially convinced the Flaming Mountains got their name from their flame-like appearance, I started to suspect it was due to the scorching temperatures in the valley as soon as I stepped out of the car. The gush of hot air as I opened the door was enough for the Dutch girl’s face to turn even redder than before and for the Japanese woman to let out a shriek “eh!”
“Come, let’s take some videos together!” the Vietnamese urged as she pulled my sleeve. I did not object, as I also wanted to take some photos in this stunning landscape. However, we had to cut our content creation session short as the sweating driver desperately called for us to get back into the car, and I nearly slipped down the gorge out of exhaustion.
“This place is too hot! Let me drop you off in the nearby historical village, where you can roam around by yourselves, while I take a rest in an air conditioned cafe,” Rafiq Jan announced.
As the other women and I climbed down the steep slopes to the historical village of Tuyoq, we were greeted by dozens of bright smiles. “Come in!” One shop owner called me over. “We already have another Tajik guest in our shop.”
When I corrected him I was not of Tajik ethnicity but had come all the way from America, his family quickly gathered around me asking for selfies.
“Do you also like to dance in America?” One of the kids curiously asked me.
“Yes, why not?” I replied.
“Good, let me teach you some Uyghur moves then!” The girl pulled me into the house behind the shop while a little boy started pulling strings on a local instrument. Two hours went by just dancing with the children, trying to imitate their elegant flap-like hand movements, while the shop owner repeatedly refilled my cup of water. Even though the house was well shaded, I still sweat uncontrollably in this weather. Yet, none of us stopped moving our bodies to the traditional beats until my hostel mates called me over from the main street.
“Arabela, let’s go! The driver is waiting for us! We’ve still got a lot of places to cover today!” the Dutch girl yelled while waving a bag full of fresh grapes with her arms. It was only then that I realized I had barely explored the village and its historical sites as I had gotten so wound up socializing with the local family.
Next, Rafiq Jan took us to a number of historical sites, including an old minaret, ruins of an ancient city, a necropolis housing real mummies, which caused the Japanese to let out the loudest “eh!” I had ever heard, and collection of mountain-hewn caves housing ancient carvings of Buddha. The latter, we barely reached before closing hour as we had spent quite some time talking to friendly locals on the way.
“Come on ladies, let’s go! I have a surprise for you!” Rafiq Jan called us to his car at the end of the day. What surprise? We’ve already covered all the places on our planned itinerary. I thought.
We quickly made our way back to town, passing again by the Flaming Mountains, which appeared even more fiery in the red tinted rays of the setting sun. I had no clue what surprise Rafiq Jan was talking about until he pulled into the driveway of a home near to our hostel, where a beautiful Uyghur woman welcomed us with big hugs.
“Welcome to my home! This is my wife Gul, she speaks neither English nor Chinese but she wants you to know that she’s excited to host you at our home!” Rafiq Jan announced. Taking both me and the Vietnamese by our hands, Gul led us through the flower-covered front yard to the living room of the house. The other three women and I threw ourselves like sandbags on the cylinder-shaped pillows adorning the Turkish-style carpet that spread across the room. The air-conditioning was running on high speed to counteract the few sun rays that still passed through the embroidered white curtains at this hour, and Gul quickly spread out a colorful table cloth on the floor on which she served hot flower tea from an intricately painted porcelain can. There were no chairs, sofas, or table in the room, yet it felt more comfortable than any hotel I had stayed in over the past two months. We spent a good while talking to the sweet woman with the help of her husband as an interpreter, until he urged us to finish our tea quickly as he had something else to show us before the sunlight was completely gone.
We hugged Gul goodbye, got back into the car, and a short uphill drive later, I could not believe where Rafiq Jan had taken us: his very own grape farm!
“Let me introduce you to the finest grapes in China!” he announced. “Different varieties are grown for different purposes. Some are best suited to make wine, others are dried to make raisins. However, the ones you find here are best enjoyed fresh!”
He broke a twig off the vine and passed it down to the four of us. I plucked a small berry and took a bite. Splash! The fibrous fruit immediately imploded between my teeth, releasing all its sweet juice at once. Despite Rafiq Jan explaining that we had come a few weeks early for the harvest, the fruits had just the right amount of sweetness. I plucked one fruit after another and so did the other women, while Rafiq Jan disappeared somewhere deep into the vineyard. After a while, he returned with a plastic bag full of grapes. This is for you to take with you. You can share it among each other. My hostel mates and I were taken aback. We tried a couple of times to decline this generous offer but eventually gave in. Turpan grapes are just too delicious!
That evening, after Rafiq Jan dropped us back off at the hostel, the four of us joined the men for dinner. Apparently, we had just arrived in time to rescue the poor Shandongese from the overly talkative American.
“How was your day? You seem very exhausted,” he asked with a welcoming smile.
“How can I not be,” I replied with my last bit of energy left, and went on to tell him about our incredible experiences.
“That’s Xinjiang for you!” He responded. “There’s a reason why I decided to leave my life in Shandong behind and move to rural Xinjiang. Conditions are not as comfortable and people here work hard to provide a decent life for themselves and their families but in the end, nothing compares to their kindness and hospitality, no matter if you come from the neighboring village, the Northeast of the country, or America.”
And he was right. Over the next couple of days, I experienced the warmest treatment by the lovely people of Turpan. From security guards inviting me for tea in their checkposts to shop owners rejecting payment and a farmer offering to give me a ride back to my hotel after a painful scooter accident, the hospitality of the Uyghur people was one of the greatest I had ever experienced. Eventually, I had to move on with my journey along the Silk Road. I went on to travel to Ili and then Kazakhstan, while the Dutch went to Xi’an, the Japanese to Kyrgyzstan, the Vietnamese to Kashgar, and the Shandongese returned to his farm. However, the more places I checked off my list, the more it became clear that China’s hottest place left a profound impact on my heart: not a heatstroke, not a heart attack, but an untamable flame of infatuation that no other place along my journey could match.
