High living with the Kirgiz nomads of western Xinjiang
　　每到夏天，游牧的柯尔克孜族人会迁徙到海拔4600米处的村落。毡帐、奶茶、家畜和太阳能，汇成了中国西部边陲居民的日常生活。
　　What a difference 60 minutes and a thousand meters can make. From the relative comfort of my mid-altitude yurt at Lake Karakul （喀拉库勒湖）， I struggle with burning lungs toward the tiny Kirgiz village of Jambulah， perched below the peak of Mt. Muztagh Ata （慕士塔格山） at 4，600 meters. Turning my back on the massive， snow-blanketed mountain for a moment， I catch sight
　　of four trucks on the Karakoram Highway （喀喇昆仑公路） far， far below. Like colorful toys， they slowly traverse the thin tarmac ribbon linking the Chinese city of Kashgar （喀什） with Islamabad， the Pakistani capital.
　　Western Xinjiang， of which Kashgar is the regional center， is steeped in history. Such historical luminaries as Marco Polo， Genghis Khan （成吉思汗） and Alexander the Great all passed through here， as did a southern branch of the legendary Silk Road （丝绸之路 s～ch5u zh～ l&）. Led by its teenaged owner， the camel carrying my outsized
　　rucksack disappears over the crest of yet another ridge， and I begin to appreciate what a daunting task it must have been to enact trade and travel in this mountainous wilderness， all those centuries ago.
　　Life hasn’t changed that much for the nomadic Kirgiz farmers who
　　inhabit this remote corner of China today， but at least the cell phone， solar panel and Suzuki motorbike， together with the Karakoram
　　Highway itself， have rendered the perils of the terrain slightly less treacherous. Completed in 1986 after two decades of construction， the highway is the highest paved road in the world， extending 1，300 kilometers over some of Asia’s most awe-inspiring landscapes.
　　Head spinning and heart pounding， I finally make it up the last gentle slope into Jambulah， with the bulk of Muztagh Ata forming a magnificent backdrop. No more than a small cluster of mud-brick buildings， yurts and animal pens， the village is only inhabited during the summer months when yaks graze the grassy slopes below the mountain’s cloudy headdress， glacial tongues and rushing meltwater. Despite half a dozen languages， the region crossed by the Karakoram Highway has a unique identity， defined by religion （predominantly Islam）， a burgeoning trade revival， the demanding environment and a sense of isolation. Jambulah is one of many Kirgiz villages dotted along the Chinese side of the Highway， inhabited by resourceful Turkic people separated from their homeland by shifting geopolitics and arbitrary border-drawing. Here， at the edge of the Tibetan Plateau， history， geography and Central Asian culture combine to give visitors a uniquely rewarding experience. Adilet doesn’t have a watch because his life is governed by the season， not the second. Like last year， and the year before that， he and his family will live in Jambulah until the first winter snow forces them lower. At such high elevation， their home is a fleeting footnote to human endurance amongst the massive contours of a timeless landscape. Jambulah， where Adilet returns home most evenings with his herd of yak， has been used by itinerant Kirgiz farmers for decades. The Karakoram Highway may end in Pakistan， but Adilet’s nomadic existence is strictly confined by international borders. Living inside China， he， his wife Cholpon， and their two sons Jyrgal and Terenk， are still proud of their Kirgiz heritage.“My sons will grow up Kirgiz. They will learn Kirgiz songs and read about Kirgiz history，” says Adilet. “We are part of the great Chinese nation， of course， but we will never forget our heritage or traditional values.”Adilet and his family quickly prove to be generous hosts. As I recline inside the smoky confines of their mud-brick home， I receive milk tea， creamy yak butter， bread and cheese in quick succession. The two young boys of the house， their faces sun-darkened and prematurely wrinkled， take me on a quick tour of the village， posing for countless photos with a touching lack of self-consciousness. Home for Adilet and his family is a combination of primitive houses and yurts. A masterpiece of low-tech design， the yurt has been used by Kirgiz nomads for over a thousand years， and is so well-matched for its purpose that it has evolved little since conception. The construction of a Kirgiz yurt is a social affair that involves whole families and communities. Kirgiz nomads often refer to their yurts as bozuy， or “grey houses”. In times gone by， ordinary families couldn’t afford to use the best quality felt to cover their yurts， so they used felt scraps， which were generally grey. Wealthier， more powerful Kirgiz would use white felt， and their more impressive homes were known as ak orgo， or white yurts. Although many Kirgiz have now swapped their yurts for brick built houses， this ingenious mobile dwelling still holds a special place in every Kirgiz heart. While yurts are used right across Central Asia， there are subtle variations in their design. “I’ve been told that our Kirgiz ones are taller than Kazakh ones，” Adilet tells me in Chinese， as we inspect one of his more luxurious examples. “The roofs of yurts in the Xinjiang Pamir have to 　　be steep to keep off the snow and rain， but despite the weather they can last for many years， if taken care of.”“To make a yurt， you start with the doorway， or bosogo，” continues Adilet. “Then you build a circular trellis wall （kerege）， which is made from sections called kanats. Each kanat is made from long birch poles， bent and tied together with leather ribbons and ropes. The curved uprights are then added， and finally the wooden circle at the top （tunduk）， which allows light in and smoke out.”Once the wooden skeleton of the yurt is complete， it is wrapped in thick felt blankets that provide protection from the wind and cold. A final blanket is placed on top of the tunduk， which can be removed and replaced according to the weather. With my eyes already watering in the smoky interior， it’s not hard to appreciate the tunduk’s importance. Inside， Adilet and Cholpon’s yurts are warm， colorful and comfortable， with hand-made carpets， blankets， pillows and cushions featuring intricate patterns. “One of the most important and traditional Kirgiz patterns is the kochkor，” explains Cholpon. “It looks like a ram’s horn. If I put many kochkor together I can make a kyal， which in Kirgiz means dream or fantasy. Many people think the swirling pattern looks like the branches of a big tree.”Kirgiz carpets—the renowned kiyiz and shyrdak—are made of felt and are richly decorated. Shyrdak are made by sewing together large pieces of felt using multicolored thread. Kiyiz are made from smaller felt pieces， which are compacted and repeatedly rolled until the fibers are bound together. These differences in production mean shyrdak are quite smooth， whereas kiyiz have a coarser surface. Cholpon explains that Kirgiz yurt space is traditionally divided according to gender and status.“The left side is the woman’s part， where she keeps her belongings， plus cooking implements and equipment for sewing and handicrafts. The right side is the man’s part， where he keeps his best clothes， equipment for hunting， fishing and horse riding， and everything for tending the animals. Opposite the entrance is the most special part of the yurt， where we store the nicest carpets， and entertain guests， such as yourself.”After a surprisingly refreshing sleep in the communal bedroom， followed by a shepherd’s breakfast of milk tea and Kirgiz-style bagels， I decide to head up to one of Muztagh Ata’s mighty glaciers， another 1，000 meters above Jambulah. Despite the previous half-day spent at altitude， it promises to be a grueling ascent. My feisty camel， which has so far tackled the mountain paths with nonchalance， begins to demand regular breaks， and I’m more than happy to oblige. Muztagh Ata， or the “father of all ice peaks”， dominates the Jambulah skyline. Soaring to an impressive 7，546 meters and often wreathed in heavy cloud， its massive granite bulk forms part of a sub-range of the Pamir Mountains which delineate the Tibetan Plateau’s northwestern edge. The surrounding area—encompassing parts of China， Tajikistan， Kirgizstan， Afghanistan， India and Pakistan—is one of the most dramatically inhospitable environments， as ongoing tectonic collision raises the highest mountains in the world. Viewed from above， the mighty Himalaya， Hindu Kush， Kunlun and Pamir ranges resemble a giant bunched fist. For eons the only force to break through this whiteknuckled， seismic vortex was water—major rivers such as the Indus， Hunza， and Gilgit. Although motorized transport is now common in the Xinjiang Pamir， turbulent terrain and a lack of roads mean the camel and horse are still as important as the combustion engine， across much of the region. With the sun high in a sky of purplish hues， I scramble over one final boulder before the jumbled， creaking， icy blocks of Muztagh Ata’s longest glacier. Despite total exhaustion， my puny achievement means nothing when ranked alongside the efforts of the trade caravans that once struggled through this land in times gone by. Still， I’ve earned the right to take in one hell of a view， as the shadows of cotton wool cumulus drift across the barren hills， snowy peaks and elevated pastures of a sweeping Pamir landscape. The yak is vital to many Kirgiz of the Xinjiang Pamir， so it’s little wonder that a large part of Adilet’s life is dedicated to the happiness of his herd. Renowned for their hardiness， yaks can live up to 25 years， providing everything from transport， meat and milk， to hair for making ropes and rugs， dung for fuel， and wool and leather for yurts， clothing and various other household items. While Adilet is out grazing his yaks， Cholpon stays home with her mother， tending the camp， milking 　　livestock， sewing， and making cheese， yogurt and butter. Even in summer it’s a constant struggle for Adilet to find enough vegetation for his bovine charges above 4，000 meters， and he often wanders far in search of the most succulent grass， herbs and lichens. The yaks must be corralled every night to protect against predation and prevent nocturnal scattering of the herd. Although early explorers of the Xinjiang Pamir such as Swedish archaeologist Sven Hedin were inclined to dramatize their encounters with the wild yak of the region， domestic animals such as Adilet’s are usually far less feisty. They can live anywhere from 3，000 meters to very high altitude， although when Hedin attempted an ill-prepared ascent of Muztagh Ata in 1890， he complained that his beasts of burden soon expired above 6，000 meters. The importance of the yak to the Kirgiz way of life is highlighted by some of their customs. “We often greet each other with the expression‘Are your cattle well？’” Adilet tells me， as he proudly shows me part of his herd the following day. “This is generally followed by ‘Are you living a peaceful life with your children？’When two young people get married we hope they will have many children in front of them， and lots of yaks behind them.”Although some trappings of modern society have penetrated the Xinjiang Pamir， Adilet knows it is relationships with land and livestock rather than technology that sustains his people.“The Kirgiz here have always been chaban （cowboys），” he explains. “We will always depend on our animals and always live off the land. The yak and horse are part of our culture， and unless we change our whole way of life， they always will be.”Living in such a demanding environment， even the most basic of materials are hard to come by for Adilet and Cholpon. Every couple of months Adilet will drive some of his yaks to the local market for bartering. He returns with sacks full of flour， tea， tobacco， matches， batteries， light bulbs and toys， as well as planks of wood， nails， and even solar panels.“Being able to generate our own power has made a huge difference to life here，” says Cholpon happily.“Before， we had to use yak butter lamps in the evening and it was difficult for the boys to do their homework. Now we have solar panels we can have bulbs in the yurts， and even play DVDs. Of course some days we don’t get any sunshine， but we usually still have enough power for lighting.”Adilet， a conquering hero to his family， looks forward rather than back， and is seemingly unfazed by the challenges that lie ahead. That evening， over a meal of steaming yak stew， he elaborates a little on his family’s way of life. “Of course things are changing，” he says. “More tourists and people from other parts of China come here now， and trade is increasing. Sometimes change is good， sometimes bad， but if we remember who we are and look after the land， then it will look after us.”Adilet and his family have taken me in without a second’s thought， sharing their food and home for a few renminbi （人民币）. For a few pleasurable days I’ve wandered the high plateaus and snowy peaks of western Xinjiang， free from the usual trappings of tourism. At the full mercy of the weather， and with scant resources， life here is undeniably tough for those who return， year after year. Yet for all the hardship， I’ve also discovered a rare and elemental beauty to existence in such a remote and wild land.