Send Lawyers, Guns, and Money

It was a sunny morning in a small village outside of Kashgar. We were there to witness the animal market which is in a different location on different days.

The market was still setting up, so on TC3's suggestion, three of us walked across the street to see what else was there (and perhaps find a decent bathroom). About ready to head back towards the market, we started walking across an open driveway of sorts, taking a shortcut back to the main road (which we could see about a hundred feet in front of us). Suddenly, a policeman was at our side. He began to speak to us in Chinese (which I couldn't understand), but TC3 and the other woman were trying valiantly to understand. I did figure out, however, that we could not cross the courtyard.

OK. We'll go back around.

Oh no. We need to come with him. Into the police station courtyard. Oh, OK.

In China, there is a fine line between feigning ignorance and going about your business... And being uncooperative. You do not want to be uncooperative.

It was beginning to dawn on me that we were not in Beijing anymore. We were in Xinjiang where there is an uneasy truce between the Uighur nationalists, Muslim leaders, and the Party. And it was National Day break — when everyone's tensions run high (although ironically is the one time people have a holiday so things should be more relaxed and more understandable, but they are not).

At first, because he was waving a piece of paper, I thought maybe we just had to sign in.

But they were asking our nationalities (Canadian, American, and English). They took our passports and were rifling through them — looking for what, I'm not quite sure; I assure you all my documentation is in order.

More and more bored police were gathering around. We were in an immediate group of maybe 10 black-clad policemen with another 20 or or so hanging about the fringes.

People were being called on various cell phones. Questions were being asked and marginally answered (due to our fundamental inability to understand the questions). We tossed out whatever we knew how to say: I am a teacher; I live in Beijing. And they only have two out of our three passports. A few of the policemen speak rudimentary English, but no one seems to be bothered about really trying to get information from us.

Then they gave us our passports back. Cool. That must mean we were done, so we headed for the gate. (See the previous comment about the fine line.) But no, they followed us — but without a lot of emotion, hence our confusion about whether we could stay or go.

Besides the 30 men milling around, we were feeling unthreatened. It had the air of a grand misunderstanding (although I know things can change on a dime around here). We were (and had been) standing in a large open courtyard. There was a police building tucked along the western edge, a few trees scattered around, and an entrance gate along the east wall. We remained untouched and in the open air. No one raised their voice. But we were not allowed to leave.

At one point, TC3 heard someone say there were three Americans which besides being decidedly untrue (having been verified by our passports) is also decidedly more ominous (although I can't quite explain why). And poor Canadian TC3 does not like being called American.

So, we all milled about, waiting. One of them got a friend who spoke English on the phone and he told TC3 that it was illegal for foreigners to be in this particular village. We should go back to Kashgar, where we were allowed to be. (Of course, we would have been more than happy to do so, but that required allowing us to leave.) We would have to have our passports copied and would not be allowed back in the county. (To be fair, there is a rather slim chance I will ever return to that county.)

We had tried to phone our tour leader, but my British compatriot couldn't get the number to work (we later figured out she was just out of credit). I discovered that I had forgotten my phone in my hotel room. Things were not looking better. I would hesitate to say I was panicking, but I was getting less and less comfortable.

We had bought some of the delicious flat bread along our wander, and I was still slowly eating the piece I had in my hand. As we were herded back into the compound towards the police building, I stuffed the last of my bread into my mouth.

I have never found it so difficult to swallow. What had moments before been delicious, warm, and fragrant was suddenly harsh and dry. It stuck in my throat as I tried to summon up enough saliva to swallow it without choking. I have never wanted to call my Handler so much as then, but I didn't have my phone. I wanted him to call my former student's mother, who is high up in the Beijing police force, and have her call these yahoos and straighten this whole mess out. Not that I knew the name of the village I was in...

Then, a small woman showed up. She was dressed nicely, if not smartly, in black trousers and a jacket. She spoke rather good English, but she had a worried air about her, making the full story difficult to comprehend (TC3 sensed she was close to tears a few times). Whatever it was, our passports were being photocopied. She confirmed with us that we were with a tour and had transportation back to Kashgar.

It was then that I noticed that one of the black-clad men was taking our picture. It was not, however, a turn-to-the-right! sort of picture. He just appeared to be taking snapshots of us with his nice feminine, pink camera for his family Spring Festival sideshow, as they do in China. Still, I refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him and smiling.

It was only later that My British friend said, with an air of resignation at our lost chance, that we should have taken out our cameras and posed with them. Alas. Perhaps it was for the best.

Once our passports had been duly photocopied, the small woman walked us out of the police courtyard. We told her we were more than happy to walk around, but she insisted that we walk across the square we had attempted to cut through.

As she escorted us, she made some small talk, apologizing for her poor English, as they do. I told her that her English was far better than my Chinese, as I do. She made sure to tell me that she was Uighur. Well then, she must speak at least three languages, which puts me to even further shame.

As we neared the street-side gate of our shortcut, we noticed a coterie of eight to ten men wearing camouflage flanking the gate. Well, had we seen that on the other side, we would have never attempted the shortcut.

It wasn't the police that were the problem, no. Oh no. We had inadvertently stumbled onto the grounds of the Party headquarters. She was likely a Party official, although I am resigned to the idea that I will never quite know.

As we neared the gate, she inquired where our bus was, and we indicated it was just down the street (and it was). She told us she thought we should leave this place, and sooner would be better.

I was certainly more than happy to comply with her request, but not before we took a turn though the animal market, gawked at some camels, cattle, and sheep, tried some freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice, and bought a (real) fleece hat.

We did tell our guide what had happened, and he brushed it aside. He said it was no big thing. Later, when our local guide was spotted and asked to register at the police station, he said it had nothing to do with our detention.

I'm not sure I believe him.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Shule County, Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China