This is the second of a series of posts detailing the bourgeois practices of nouveau-riche, communist-heritage pilgrims who possess expectations and consumer desires that seem at odd with the core ideologies of the founding fathers of the Chinese Revolution. Armed with cash and a new sense of leisure, most of these fledgling tourists first make their way to Shaoshan/韶山, the birthplace of Mao Zedong. A slew of “red” products and trinkets are available around every corner even in the face of sincere reverence for founding Chinese Communist Party leaders that borderlines on idolization. Elderly tourists kowtow to statues of Mao Zedong while company retreats sing “red” songs and pledge oaths. These blind followers make easy prey for egregious tourist traps such as the Shao Yue Palace Maoist Family History Show, where attendants usher punters into Mao Zedong veneration halls, hand out lucky ornaments, ask them to bow to a Mao Zedong statue three times and then try to charge them for the “blessed” ornaments. Some estimate the value of the entire “red” industry at $1.5 billion dollars and Mao Zedong’s hometown is at the epicenter. Also check out the last post in the series on “The Defense of Yan’an” reenactment.

I am definitely late in publicizing this, but Time Magazine used a bunch of photographs from my Red China Rising series in a recent article on red culture and Maoist thought promotion in China for the 90th anniversary of the Chinese Communist Party. The foreign and domestic media frenzy surrounding the promotion of red songs and Mao quotes seems to have subsided now, but it certainly doesn’t mean old people won’t keep gathering in public parks to belt out “The East is Red” and other Cultural Revolution favorites. The whole campaign sort of turned into a joke by the end, and certainly never really caught on amongst the youth. The only real impact I could see is that couples dressing up for cheesy romantic portait sessions now like to don People’s Liberation Army garb covered in red stars. Intentional irony or not, march on!

The annual wedding expo went down this past weekend at the Beijing Exhibition Centre much to the delight of hopeful young couples all over Beijing. Booths offering complete wedding packages were packed with small tables and agents showing off their look books and other materials guaranteed to fulfill matrimonial fantasies. In other sections of the expo, young potential brides tried on a wedding gowns of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Quite frankly, the bustle and intensity of the engaged couples was overwhelming – everything was imbued with desire and hope. Right now, western-style weddings are all the hype in China, and people are willing to go to great lengths to guarantee their own vision of modern and cultured wedding ceremony.

Over the past year I have attentively bent my cartographic obsessions upon Central Asia. It represented a gaping hole in my world geography – a nebulous patch on the map boxed within more prominent regions. The puzzling jigsaw of borders, deserts, and inland seas nonetheless eluded any fixation in my mind. Even a month before my departure I could barely pronounce the names of areas I was to visit. I conjoined various syllables of neighboring countries and fed them to inquiring parties, “Yes, I will be visiting Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Tushkazilstan throughout August.” The amusing game made me feel better about my own ignorance, especially when people didn’t pick up on it. Newfangled post-Soviet republics convincingly sprang into existence on a nightly basis. It lent an air of mystery to the whole enterprise.

Despite such buildup the alluring bubble of Central Asia viciously popped while crossing from China into Kyrgyzstan. After struggling through initial immigration hurdles with a gaggle of rotund Uzbek ladies breathing heavily down my neck, two friends and I faced a five-kilometer stretch of hot tarmac before the first Kyrgyz outpost – a most unwelcoming no-man’s-land. Desperation soon set in after the same Uzbek ladies quickly snapped up the only empty seats in cargo trucks also waiting to clear Chinese customs and the ensuing barren expanse. All attempts to acquire spots of our own proved futile as passing drivers waved off our imploring gestures to board their vehicles. Nobody seemed interested in our plight.

Finally, after serious contemplation of crossing the inhospitable terrain on foot, a driver with a toothless grin beckoned us into his cab. We immediately crammed into the dingy compartment. Unfortunately, my initial joy upon scoring a ride blinded me to the predicament of his transport. Two trailers precariously balanced and strapped with cheap Chinese goods swung behind the ramshackle rig. The prohibitive weight of his haul limited our speed to about 5mph, thereby ruining any hope of a glorious entrance into Central Asia. Even the most stubborn mule would have easily left us behind in a wake of ruddy dust.

After an additional seven passport checks, two more hitched rides, and an officious interrogation regarding the intentions of my stay in Kyrgyzstan, I was finally in Central Asia. That fleeting moment of exultation was soon followed by more despair however. Border towns do not always lend the best impressions of a country, and the massive junkyard that comprised the frontier village offered no signs of enticement for the month of travel that lay ahead. Luckily an enterprising young girl selling meat pies took the edge of the whole escapade. Dusty and downtrodden, I nibbled on the tasty treat and peered about for a car to take our group to Osh.

Three hours later I was passing in and out of consciousness in the back of a small Russian jeep – every bump and rut on the haphazard road unfailingly slammed my head into the passenger window. My restless slumber finally came to an end when our driver stopped to assist another vehicle suffering massive engine failure. I stumbled out of the car only to be met with a vision more bizarre than the dream-fueled haze fading from my sensibility. A pastoral spread of yurts, farm animals, frolicking youth, and glossy Soviet trailers backdropped by the mighty Pamir Alay range spread out before us.

The proprietors of the peculiar estancia immediately offered us teeming bowls of yogurt and ushered us behind a trailer where we sat observing a young woman intently weaving thick bands of rope used to bind the slender frames of their yurts. The deft movement of her hands captivated me until a contumacious young burro disturbed my meditation, forcing me to chase him around the yard a few times. I had to cut my caper short though when the Uzbek ladies who so brusquely purloined our rides at the border that morning pulled up in their own jeep to rest and investigate the scene. I prepared myself for a mortal showdown.

Standing in the front yard with my bowl of yogurt and a clenched fist, I put on my most imposing visage. Like any hardened Asiatic traveler, I held longstanding grudges for anyone who broke queues and these particular offenders snagged our rides across the border without a hint of remorse. The Uzbek ladies, bedecked in gaudy robes and sporting flashy gold crowns on their teeth, took no notice of me however and quickly entered the trailer for a mid-morning snack. Noting their apparent disinterest, I continued my own exploration of the nearby area while our driver continued to slam the engine block of his friend’s car with a large mallet.

After playing with the rest of the farm animals including a gregarious brood of chicks that would expectantly clamor about your feet in search of food, loud accordion music started blasting from the front yard of the homely trailer. The Uzbek ladies had thrown open the doors of their jeep and instigated a dance party using a surprisingly loud stereo system. In spite of earlier resolutions, my ill will began to melt as the energetic pack of bodies bounced about the yard, wrists twisting into various exotic poses at every beat. They soon engendered a raucous wresting match amongst the children living in the yurt and attracted the expectant attention of neighbors on the surrounding hills. I could no longer harbor any discontent in the face of such impromptu revelry. Even lazy dogs enjoying afternoon naps emerged from their shady corners to bask in the energy of the boisterous crowd.

Thus, bowl of yogurt firmly in hand, my love affair with Central Asia firmly took root. The sentiment could not be resisted. I surrendered to the upbeat accordion music sweeping across the high plateau and threw my lot in with the spontaneous frivolities taking place around me. Such absurdities must always be embraced and I was in no position to refuse such a gift.

As the cultural center and capital of Tibet, Lhasa constantly remains poised to set the socioeconomic tone for the rest of the region. However, after a third visit over six years, characterizing that tone continues to evade me. Lhasa’s elusive nature never seems to resolve itself as the colorful Tibetan quarter continues to hold out against the encroaching conurbations inhabited by immigrating Han Chinese. Two years ago such architecturally uninspiring edifices seemed poised to swallow old Lhasa whole, but now I feel quite the opposite.

The Barkhor pilgrim circuit encompassing the Jokhang temple at the heart of the Tibetan quarter emitted a vivacity I had never felt before. On a daily basis thousands of pilgrims, monks, nuns, and awkward tourists rambled around the residence of the most revered Buddha image in Tibet. An odd cacophony emerged from the crowd as the murmur of prayers mixed with shuffling feet, congenial conversations, and the occasional resounding smack of pilgrims clapping their hands above their heads before prostrating on the ground. More importantly, the alleys surrounding the Barkhor teemed with Tibetans perusing small local markets and bustling about their daily business. I felt I had slipped into a vibrant Tibetan city instead of a fading relic of the past.

Since Tibet’s “peaceful liberation,” the Chinese state has largely committed itself to implementing “progressive” socioeconomic policies in Lhasa in hopes of bringing the rest of the region under more centralized control. Many indigenous customs were condemned while major religious institutions endured heavy censure and sometimes destruction in an attempt to redefine their identities and role in communities. For example, since the fourteenth Dali Lama’s 1959 exile into India, the Potala Palace was transformed into a state museum used to portray his presence as a figment of the past overcome by the ineluctable advent of modernity. Monks that attended the shrines were not even allowed to wear traditional monastic robes – the Chinese state did not want any indication that it still remained a functioning religious institution. Within the scope of socioeconomic progress, the Chinese state attempted to consign the Potala Palace to a bygone epoch just like the Forbidden City in Beijing. Still, its potency and ability to inspire awe remained, just as an undeniable resilience still prevailed within the Tibetan quarter.

Lhasa embodies an odd paradox posed by free market reforms and the rise of consumer culture introduced by the Chinese state. Newly built strip malls now crowd important temples and monasteries – centers of a faith devoted to self-abnegation and rarified spiritual pursuits. Nonetheless, a monk pulling a slick cell phone from beneath his robe no longer seems so strange a sight. Many religious institutions subsist on a very ambiguous line as mere tourist attractions and functioning monastic and spiritual centers. In all, generalizations continue to fail to capture this marvelous city as it persistently twists into a stranger synthesis of global influences and longstanding traditions.