Small number people
In Chinese an ethnic minority is called ‘small number ethnic group’. The Han Chinese are very proud of their country’s ethnic diversity, but their attitude to ‘small number people’ often jars western years as paternalistic and simplistic. Each minority is spoken of primarily in terms of their colourful clothes, exotic ethnic dances, songs and, of course, food. Moreover, each group exhibits a rigid set of characteristics from which there can be no deviation. For example, the Yi are treacherous ,backstabbing, criminally minded and not to be trusted; the Dai are very good businessmen and are very clean, the Uighurs are violent, extremely dangerous and make great kebabs. Whenever an ethnic Han Chinese person talks about his home province’s ‘small number people’, he takes on a tone of an Englishman who has rare species of newt in his garden pond.
While Yunnan minorities are considered harmless and exotic by the Han, the Xinjiang’s ones are regarded with suspicion and often downright fear. Central Asian and Muslim, the Xinjiang’s natives have nothing culturally in common with the Han and this resentment often spills into riots and even low level insurgency. Our Han friends routinely warned us of the dangers of Xinjiang and its wild unruly non-Chinese inhabitants. It is (literally) the Wild West of China.
Amriki marak?
We had very fond memories of the Chinese Wild West after working there as course markers for the Gobi March multi-day ultramarathon. The food was superb, the scenery stunning and it just looked so different from overcrowded, polluted and generally uninspiring landscapes of the East of the People’s Republic. The main local ethnic group, the Uighurs, can look almost western and me, being quite swarthy and often bearded, was taken for a local. No-one stared at me in Xinjiang when I was wearing non-foreigner clothes. It was a welcome change from finger pointing, open-mouthed staring and nerve – slicing ‘Haaaaaaaaaallow’ that are the bane of foreigners in many (most) parts of China.
We found that a greeting of ‘salam aleikum’ worked wonders with taxi drivers and stall owners and saved us from being charged a foreigner – westerner price. Inspired by the awesome power of ‘salam aleikum’ we got cocky and eventually we got our come upannce. We strolled into a small shop in the old town part of the city of Kashgar to buy some water, and confidently ‘salamaleykumed’ the owner, a stern-looking turbaned gentleman. Rather than breaking out in smiles (as we expected based on out previous experiences) the turbaned gentlemen asked us something in Uighur, and not understanding our Chinese (most older people did not actually speak Chinese) sternly demanded: ‘ Amriki marak?’. We replied in Chinese that one of us was indeed an ‘Amriki’ and that we did not understand Uighur. This seemed to have annoyed the owner who again demanded, ‘Amriki marak?’, and this time it sounded like a threat. We meekly smiled, hastily put the required amount of money on the counter and fled.
We were delighted to have opportunity to go to Xinjiang again, and to a different part of it, which was probably for the best, considering the ‘Amriki Marak’ incident. ‘Amriki Marak’ happened in the mountainous west, close to the border with Kyrgyzstan, in the Tian Shan mountains. This time we were going East, to Turpan, an oasis in the Gobi, famous for its grapes and sand dunes. We agreed to keep down the ‘salyam aleikum’ regardless.
The race information sent to us in English was fascinating. The ‘desert leisure games’ comprised several sporting events. While some of those were straightforward basketball and 5-a-side football; there was also something called a ‘self-driving competition’ and a monumentally bizarre ‘international wood-pellet game’. The race distance was confidently stated as 18-28km. We emailed back asking for the original Chinese version.
Getting there
We got to the city of Urumchi, the capital of Xinjiang, way after 11PM, exhausted and hungry. The race representatives who picked us up in the airport bundled us into a 4x4, informed us that it was a 4 hour drive to Turpan and that we had to wait for another athlete, a guy from Malta whose plane should be landing shortly. Rudy promptly curled up into a ball on the back seat and went into a coma. The Maltese athlete called Ishmael appeared after about an hour, excitedly chatting in good Chinese to our handlers. Expecting a gazelle-like distance runner I was unpleasantly surprised at Ishmael’s absolute lack of resemblance to the above mentioned animal. The outcome of this was that we had a 6 hour drive squeezed together in the back seat where there should have been plenty of room for 3 long distance runners. To make things worse I was stuck in the middle, which means unsupported neck, which, in turns, means absolute agony for me. I started getting angry. I got angrier when we suddenly stopped and the driver switched the engine off. There had been an accident head and the highway was blocked. I got out of the jeep and wondered between trucks and cars for a while, stretching my neck, angrily mumbling to myself. It was windy, dark, cold and raining outside, but I was sick of the back seat most of which was now taken up by non-gazelle like Ishmael. After more than an hour the road got cleared and we finally made a move.
We got to the hotel at 7 in the morning. I was delirious with pain in my spine, despite a massive dose of codydromol. I was expecting to be given a key and dive into a bed. Not so. We had to wait for the race registration to start to get our keys. I started swearing out loud. After half an hour two stern middle aged ladies with perms from the organizing committee (ladies, not perms) came down and set up shop in the lobby. We ran up to them saying that we were foreign competitors who urgently needed to go to bed to rest and demanded our keys. The ladies countered by demanding insurance. We indignantly replied that we had none. This made the perms angry: arrogant foreigners showing lack of respect to proper procedure and figures of authority. They triumphantly declared that all the competitors must have insurance and that this matter can only be resolved by their boss who was still asleep. Luckily the boss promptly appeared, calmed down the permed ladies saying that foreigners are exempt from insurance and we finally got our keys. It was now almost 8. I got to my room to only to find out that it was locked form inside. Rudy’s was also already occupied. I swore some more. The permed ladies’ boss was apologetic, but not overly. He said that things had been really chaotic and handled us a key to a twin room. It was 8:30.
Eastern Promises and Geronimo Hasselhoff
Before the Xinjiang race I hypothesized that with Kazakhstan being so close to Xinjiang, there might be a team from there with a young fast dude, or a couple of fast young dudes. Rudy, whose knowledge of Kazakhstan was influenced by Borat, was skeptical of there being Kazakhstani representation and of Kazakhstani distance running pedigree in general. I was right, the race information booklet, given to us in Turpan, confirmed that there was indeed a team from Kazakhstan.
We were about to go for lunch when three what looked like westerners emerged from the hotel elevator. They were accompanied by a fierce-looking stocky middle-aged Asian man sporting a mane of dyed jet-black hair culminating in a Steven Seagal-style ponytail. The westerners at close quarters did not look or behave like westerners. Obviously athletes, they had snarling expressions and deep craggy Slavic features. Apart from Geronimo they were all ethnic Russians. The little shaven headed muscular guy was snarling the most. I nudged Rudy and whispered: ‘Kazakhstanis’. Rudy looked a bit scared. The Kazakhstanis looked us over and offered a minimal nod of acknowledgement. The ponytailed one, whom I called Geronimo for his ponytail, cragginess and fierceness, marched up to the reception and started shouting at the staff about a problem with breakfast, translating the replies into Russian to the short muscular snarling guy. The short muscular guy looked like a Russian gangster from a Hollywood film and so became Eastern Promises. Eastern Promises listened to Geronimo’s ranting in dignified, snarling silence. I was not sure if Geronimo was a Chinese person speaking perfect Russian or a Kazakhstani who spoke excellent Chinese. Geronimo and Eastern Promises were accompanied by a young skinny dude, who was obviously the running protégé and an athletic tough-looking girl who actually smiled at Rudy and obviously wanted to speak English. Neither EP nor Geronimo showed any enthusiasm for such frivolities.
‘Your ‘Iroquois’ won’: Eastern Promises said after I crossed the finishing line (in 13th place). It took me a few seconds to figure out that in Russian a ‘mohawk’ is an ‘Iroquois’ and that therefore Rudy won. Rudy’s win obviously won the respect of snarling Kazakhstanis who were now willing to talk and were even smiling. On the bus back to the hotel I found out that the muscular girl was Olympic runner up and twice European champion in biathlon, the young protégé has a 64 minute half marathon , Geronimo is a Kazakh not Chinese, and Eastern Promises is a distance coach of some renown who used to run for the Soviet Union in his day.
Geronimo, the Kazakh, was a fixer and a translator. He told me that he had been working on sports exchanges between the USSR /Kazakhstan and China for more than 20 years. Geronimo (his real name was Anatoli) spoke fluent Chinese of the kind that can only be learnt through living and working (and drinking) in China. He had unstoppable energy, a rough, in-your-face, intimidating attitude, and did not mince his words. I asked him how old he was. ‘I am 64’, said Anatoli proudly, adding an unprintable Russian exclamation, ‘and I can effin’ drink a bottle of vodka on my own. Serves me well at business dinners with the Chinese, you know what they are like, always trying to get you hammered. They drink themselves half to death trying to keep up with me. Funny, really’. ‘That’s what us, Russians, are like’, he added proudly.
The conversation shifted to Hong Kong somehow and Geronimo – Anatoli excitedly fished out his tablet computer and summoned us all to take a look. As he was flicking through the screen I was surprised to see, among folders with mountaineering and sports fotos, several video files with naked women. The fact that all four of us had just seen his porn collection did not seem to bother Geronimo in the slightest. ‘There it is’ he said after several naked women rolled past us on the screen. ‘Disneyland in Hong Kong, he said, with deep respect. ‘An amazing, effin’ place’, look. He started bringing up photos. ‘That place really is something, you must go next time you are in Hong Kong’, Anatoli was excited now. ‘This show they had on (it was the Lion King), proper black people singing, the costumes, you won’t believe. Quality, that stuff is just quality’. ‘
Eastern Promises was not very impressed with Disneyland; on the bus to Urumchi we were talking about sports and the recent London Olympics. The discussion got heated. ‘I know you are British, he said but you are also a Russian, so please tell me that you don’t think that Paula Radcliffe is not doping! How else can a woman run a 2:15 marathon?’ Sorry for being honest , I really don’t want to offend you, but this British hypocrisy gets under my skin. All those gold medals in the Olympics in London, out of nowhere! And then they have the nerve to get all moral about doping.’ ‘Trust me, I have been around, I know how it all works’, he added, smiling at my western naivete.
Geronimo and I talked about Urumchi, the capital of Xinjiang. ‘A great city he said, a Russian city now, half of Russia and Kazakhstan come here to let their hair down. Come from as far as Omsk and Novosibirsk, some of them. There are some great places to relax here, quality Russian discos with Russian music, strippers, the works’. ‘There is good seafood here’, he added, ‘we are going to a seafood buffet this evening, you are invited’.
In the evening Geronimo marshaled us all to the buffet, storming down the street ahead of us, who had sore legs after running through soft sand that same day. He suddenly stopped and looked at me: ‘Where is your Iroquis?’. ‘Rudy? He went to get some noodles’. Geronimo was shocked. ‘What?!! You did not invite him? What’s wrong with you? . ‘I did not know you also invited him’, I meekly protested. ‘Of course we effin’ did, how could I just invite you only?’ he was shocked and disgusted. ‘What the hell will he think of us?! What sort of impression of Russians will he have now?!! Call him immediately, apologize and get him here’. I duly obeyed. Rudy by that time was back in his hotel room with a plate of noodles, counting his winnings, basking in the glow of his win. He had no desire to hang out with scary Kazakhstanis. I replayed this information to Geronimo-Anatoli, but it did not go down well. ‘It’s your fault’ he said. ‘This is crap, he will think we are some sort of stingy assholes now, that’s not the proper way to do things.’ He was genuinely puzzled and pissed off. ‘Your westerners are cold, he said with amazement, Russians would never drop their buddy like that.’
The restaurant was a hotpot place, we piled meat, seafood, mushrooms on our plates and started boiling them in pots set up on the table. Inevitably it came to vodka and toasts. ‘To the Queen of England’, Eastern Promises declared, lifting the glass. ‘You respect the Queen, right?’. I assured him that I did and that Her Majesty on her part had nothing but respect and admiration for the Russian people. ‘To the Queen, then’, said Eastern Promises and downed a massive glass of Chinese vodka.
During dinner I got chatting to the biathlon girl. ‘She is famous in Kazakhstan’, now very tipsy Eastern Promises interrupted. ‘President Nazarbayev knows her personally. He actually recognizes her at official dos’. He said proudly. ‘He gave her an apartment’, you now. ‘Two apartments, actually, the biathlon girl, added, shyly but with pride. ‘Oh yes’, Eastern Primises chuckled. At one reception Nazarbayev was chatting to her, asked her where she lived, and then shouted at his ministers, ‘just give the girl a flat, would you? Come to think of it, give her two.’ You should have seen how they got on their mobiles and stared scurrying around. ‘Let’s drink to President Nazarbayev!’
PS: the race itself: we ran up and down sand dunes with virtually no route marks and the leading pack got spectacularly off-course. All the top girls had a guy runner pulling them uphill. I had an awful race, finished 13th, blaming the sleepless night and neck pain the day before.