Ma Jian - Red Dust

The committee hostel is the tallest building in town. Its three storeys jut above the low stone houses like a large solitary matchbox. The streets have no trees. A mountain wind sweeps up spirals of dust as it scurries through town. The Kazak faces under white skullcaps and white scarves echo the colour of the mountains. I remember Mili saying her mother was born in this town.

I suddenly regret not catching a lift north instead. Xinjiang is China’s largest and most desolate province, and is scattered with ancient Buddhist sites. In my pocket, I still have my half-used train ticket to the capital, Urumqi, but it expired a week ago. My only choice now is to cross the Aierjin mountains and proceed to Qinghai. At least I will see the Chaidam Basin once I am over the Dangjin Pass. It is a vast saline depression, apparently, dotted with clear blue lakes.

I hitch a ride in the morning and reach the pass at noon. A cleft opens in the mountain. The road enters, snakes down the other side, and pushes into the eerie waste of Chaidam.

I ask the driver to stop. Then I jump off, leave the road and climb a high scree. Halfway up I feel that I am floating in mid-air. The view to the west is blocked by a high mountain, but to the east I see a line of white peaks run far into the distance. A thousand years ago, when troops from the Jin Kingdom marched through here on their way to attack the central plains, a storm broke and buried the soldiers in snow. From that day forth the pass was known as ‘Dangjin’ — shield against the Jin advance. Apparently the ghosts of the dead soldiers still haunt the area. No one dares drive through at night.

Below me, the gravel basin stretches under the midday sun. I see a blue lake glisten in the distance, dangling in the desert like a jewel on a woman’s neck. It must be Sugan, the lake that inspires so many local folk songs.

‘It’s beautiful, beautiful.’ My hands clench.

I pull out my camera and look through the lens. The lake instantly shrinks to a spot in the landscape — a tiny sapphire no one notices on the finger of a beautiful woman. No photograph could capture its beauty. I put the camera away, finish the instant noodles I bought yesterday, take a swig of water and set off for the lake.

After an hour’s descent I reach the desert. Sweat pours from my body and evaporates in seconds. My water is half-finished, and the lake has sunk from view. I must rely on my compass from now on.

The sun is still overhead. As I breathe the hot air in and out my mouth becomes as dry as dust. The compass in my hand burns like the gravel underfoot. The dry noodles have reached my stomach and seem to be sucking the moisture from my blood. I long to reach the shore of the lake and plunge my head in its cool water. For brief moments, refracted through the heat waves on the right, I see villages, moving trucks, or a sweep of marsh. If I didn’t have a compass, I might be tempted to walk straight into the mirage.

Four or five hours go by. At last I see clumps of weed rise from the gravel. The land starts to dip. I check the compass. Sugan should be right in front of me now, but all I see is the wide stony plain.

Suddenly it dawns on me that distances can be deceptive in the transparent atmosphere of the desert. The lake that seemed so near from the pass could be a hundred kilometres away. After all, what looked like a tiny blue spot is in fact a huge lake. It is too late to turn back now though — my bottle is empty. I have no choice but to keep walking towards the water. Where there is water there are people, and where there are people there is life. There is no other path I can take.

As the sun sinks to the west, the lake reappears at last. It is not a lake exactly, just a line of grey slightly brighter than the desert stones, not wavering in the heat haze this time, but lying still at the edge of the sky. I am on course, but my legs can barely hold. There is camel-thorn underfoot now and the earth is covered with a thick saline crust. The sun sinks slowly below me, then reddens and disappears.

When my feet tread onto damp grass the sky is almost black. I move forward in a daze. The ground gets wetter and wetter. Through the green weeds ahead I glimpse a cold sweep of water. Hurriedly I drop my pack and wade down through the marsh towards the lake. I have arrived at last. Let me plunge into your waters! I stamp to the shore, throw myself down and scoop the water into my mouth. The taste is foul and brackish. A fire burns down my chest and my stomach explodes. I roll over and retch and my mind goes black.

A while later I wake up shivering with cold. Instinctively I start moving away from the lake. A briny taste rises from my stomach and sticks to the vomit on my tongue. I long for a sip of clean water to rinse my mouth and throat. My body and mind are frazzled but if I don’t leave now I will die here on the shore. I try to crawl, but my hands give way. I fall and sink into the mud.

When I left Beijing I thought to myself, it doesn’t matter where I go because I can dig my grave anywhere in China’s yellow soil. But now that my life hangs on a thread, my only thought is of survival. I force my eyes open and try to see what lies ahead. A soft light falls on my brow. I crawl out of the marsh and see a full moon at the horizon, clear and round. I can almost touch it. I want to walk towards it, but stop myself. Its beauty is as beguiling as the lake’s, and would prove just as murderous.

I scramble to my pack, pull everything out and rummage through the mess, ripping bags open, tossing things aside. At last I find a sachet of coffee granules in a small plastic bag. I stuff the bag into my mouth and chew through the plastic and foil. The granules are hard and dry. I swallow a few, and spit out the rest.

My mind begins to clear. I sense the need to pass water, so I hold out my bottle and wait. A few drops fall to the bottom. I swig them back and feel my blood start to flow again.

In the moonlight I sort through my belongings and discard everything unnecessary: books, magazines, clothes, socks. Then I swing on my pack and struggle to my feet.

I check my compass and decide to walk ten degrees north. That should take me back to the Qinghai road. Li Anmei, the Qiaozi announcer, told me her parents live in Tuanjie village on the road between Gansu and Qinghai.

Apart from the echo of my dragging footsteps, the desert is silent. The full moon rises into the night sky. After a few hours of slow march I see a light in the distance. At first I suspect I am imagining it. I walk for a while with my eyes closed, but when I open them again the light is still there. I walk towards it. The light grows larger. It appears to be a lamp. I stop and rest, still gazing at the light, afraid that if I blink it will vanish. Now that I have a goal to walk to, I feel my body being pulled towards it.

Soon I can see it is a truck. A lamp hangs over the boot. I hear noises. My legs move excitedly.

Getting closer, I see a man hammering at the wheel. The sound bangs through the night air. It is a comforting noise. I do not shout, in case it startles him.

Then I spot the lid of a thermos flask set on the path ahead. I pounce on it and empty the water into my throat. My body trembles with life. Moisture seeps into my eyes.

I crouch down and look at the driver. He is ten metres away, sitting in front of his truck, staring right back at me.

‘Thank you, brother,’ I say, putting the lid down.

He had placed the cup as far away as possible, it is clear he is nervous of me. He probably thinks I am an escaped prisoner. Why else would I be crossing the desert on my own? Still, his cup of water has saved my life.

‘I’m going to Tuanjie to stay with the Li family. I seem to have lost my way.’

His hands move. ‘Follow those wheel tracks up to the road. A truck will pass at dawn.’