I spend all of a hot day sliding up to Kargilik, a worn-out sort of town, but fairly big and built on an absolutely flat spot. I stay at the Mountaineering Hotel. It's popular with Uigur, Chinese and Tibetan truckers en route to and from Ali, the capital of western Tibet. Ali is my first destination, the capital of western Tibet, and it is about 1500 kilometres southwest from Xinjiang. The road to Ali climbs high peaks, traverses desert plateaus, passes huge lakes and traces rapid alpine rivers.

Across from the hotel here in Kargilik is a Chinese-run chop shop and I gobble up sweet greasy Sichuan pork and tomatoes. I eat a lot in anticipation of the hard trip. The I visit the market to buy black cotton slippers - for the cold mornings ahead. The mosque is beside the market. Many men are gathered outside in front of the mosque, and they pray on their knees as I walk by. I find some silver bracelets at a shop near by. As I bargain over the bracelets, the praying men come ambling round the corner. I also buy a kilo of lovely walnut and raisin square.

Then I take my silver bracelets to the post office. The skittish girl behind the counter is unable to explain why she can't mail my bracelets, and I can't tell her how much I don't want to lug them up and down every mountain between here and Lhasa... I gather that the government only permits international parcels from the main post office - in Kashgar. All these people have to stand in line for China, and yet, they couldn't care less about it. I throw a childish tantrum, embarrassing myself completely. Moping around the post office, I shout, "Mintien, mintien, that's it, you've got China - everything's mintiiiiiennn!" (Mintien means tomorrow.) I'm a complete asshole, so I leave the post office to cool off.

On the steps, I sneer at the old scribe sitting by his pile of envelopes and paper, "Your filthy son stole my watch..." Hopefully, he doesn't understand me. ...Scribes really do sit on the steps of post offices in Xinjiang: they're available for illiterates who need to write letters begging for money from relatives, and to apply for lost I.D. cards.

I relax by getting a hair cut. The hairdresser's light touch really makes me feel good. Once more, I look the politely sane marine, not a shaggy dog psycho. People in China all look the same as each other: you can't tell the difference between a policeman out of uniform and a regular local businessman. There is no visible distinction between arty types and money men like we have back home... Of course, the Uigurs look quite different from the Chinese - wearing their characteristic beanies, and the women, shawls and long dresses.

The fact remains that I need a new watch before I go... This particular department store is a museum. The shop proves that the enduring patience of Xinjiang equals slumber. The salesman smiles to himself when he realizes that I actually want to buy a watch. He pulls three trays from the bottom of his display: antique stock. These aren't the latest Hong Kong quartzes... I mean, this is like the back streets of Algeria or Burma. But I like old watches a lot - they look so crafted. This old watch has 17 jewels and winds up on a spring - for about 8 U.S. dollars. The amused salesman takes me outside to find a nice guy on the street corner to attach a stretchy silver watchband.

The Chinese television shows the English news. Ah, to leave televisions behind forever: what a wonderful release from all the horrible shit of the world! The last thing I endure before switching off CCTV4 is a feature about the "officially approved" Panchen Lama leading a puppet festival of Tibetan Buddhist grammatical gymnastics. May God bless all the pawns of the world. Did you know - there was another Panchen Lama before this one got on Chinese tv? He was chosen by the Dalai Lama, that's part of his job, audacious fellow that he is. But the Chinese government did not permit his selection and quickly arranged to discover their own official Panchen Lama; all this strange colonial behavior, much to the dismay (as well as "correct disinterest") of ordinary Tibetans.

Only one day of rest in Kargilik. I don't know what I'm up against. I ask the truckers how far it is to Mazar. 200 kilometres, they say. Mazar is an army outpost in the Yarkant valley, just beyond two high mountain passes over the Kunluns. The highest pass has a Tibetan name, the Chiragsaldi La ("La" means pass) and is over 5000 metres up. I leave town very early the next day. The road is the usual macadam between double rows of trees and straw muck. Some old men are shaking out their household carpets by the road. Their sons must be too lazy to do it. I'm happy to be gone and hope they forget me, too.

The road's too straight for my taste. There's a T-intersection and nobody waits to see me turn off. I go straight south. Finally things start to change. An old man crouches beside the pavement near an old commune. As I pass by, he tears a small piece of paper in two. His commune isn't one of the new ones, I guess. I know nothing about how other people feel... Then I see them coming: a convoy of olive drab trucks trundling from the hills... So, the Chinese army is very busy around here! Ten heavy transport trucks are travelling together. The trucks speed by, their drivers anxious to return after three days hauling across nowhere.

The land has no more trees to give. The sun blinds: the horizon is gone, there's only an empty fire of blurry sand and hazy heaven. Nobody lives here. Nobody. Ahead, I see a pair of beige ridges. They look far away, fuzzy, as if painted on the sky, rising slightly. They are like massive crow's feet edging the eyes of a lofty visage - perhaps the invisibly large profile of spiritual hope written across earthly desolation.

I ride for half an hour and spot a commune based on an artesian well. I need water, so I stop and fill up three bottles. The residents show me around the peaceful place. They keep a garden. A grinning old man passes us, bearing a burden of grapevines ripe with juice and vitamins.

The next ridge is three times higher. Believe me, the Earth sometimes seems too big on a bike. At least, the oasis villages up here are full of folk. One of the most fascinating towns is Kogyar. Lunchtime finds me in a rustic cafe full of men. The cook fetches a bowl of boiled mutton and noodles. All the guys are watching the television play hokey Hindustani movies full of unlikely heroes and hard-to-have-fun-with heroines who'd rather race around in their cars than let their boyfriends touch them. They sing about love, wave their polo mallets in the air, and generally avoid the slums and street urchins.

I look for a hotel. But there's no place to stay. And the local Chinese governor, reclining in his office, doesn't offer any hospitality. He says only one word of English, "Back... back... back... baaack!" I'm not sure if he's suggesting I return to Kargilik - or what. Quietly, I leave. The villagers of Kogyar let me take pictures...

The road slips from the green seclusion of an oasis onto a plain of burnt red sand. A strong wind strikes me full force. Fine crystal sprays across my face, making me wish for a pair of ski goggles. Out of nowhere comes a man wearing black sunglasses, walking two camels. He smiles at me and I wonder where to camp. But it's impossible in this wind.

A few kilometres later I come to another oasis village, Pusa. The local folk gaze at me from across the road as I consume some beer. I wonder where to camp. Finally, some kids show me a grove of apricots. Pusa is an idyllic spot, affording perfect shots against the golden sand just beyond town...

The contrast between lush green and burning sand is astonishing. I feel like the village lies under a bubble of grace, a whim of divine favor. Pure spring water flows from under the Earth to feed the village. It's a perfect camping spot. I set up my tent for the first time and hope all my camping spots are so perfect as this! The kids watch me wash my body and clothes then finally leave me alone at dusk.

Back up the main street, I see a new school by the path made of tile and bricks. Luckily, I find dinner and a video with the locals. It's a horror flick about a nineteenth century warlock: his spirit is trying to take over the town so he can renew his body and return to his previous lifestyle of orgy and endless youth. All references to local Uigurs in this California-made movie, I write-off to mild schizophrenia. I also write-off the audio speaker sewn deeply into the outdoor air: full of voices reminding me how slow I go... Anyway, I sleep soundly, free of bad dreams.

Morning finds me riding up the road and the local farmers look like they can't believe I'm really going up the wrong way - towards the high passes and the endless empty wastes. But I am. Very little plant life grows here, only wild grass and small shrubs. At the upper valley is a sparse, dry hamlet of goat herds. Their single store is almost empty; I buy peanuts and fruit soda for lunch.

Immediately after the village the road becomes a steady climb up to a pass. This affords an interesting transition. At the top of this first high pass, you can look back towards Xinjiang and see the desert air, a yellow ochre haze enveloping everything northwards. But to the south lies an entirely different place: the mountain peaks range up much higher, and there's none of the dry powder squelching the atmosphere. In the south, the Kunluns graze the transparent deep blue of outer space. The air is clean and pure. Beyond, I spot some white, ice-crested peaks of ranges even further south, in the vicinity of K2.

The road drops thirty kilometres before I come upon a road workers' commune beside a deserted Uigur village. The place is called Akaz. One of the men shows me to a shower. The water is river-cool, but it feels so good to wash. Then I go for a walk through the deserted village. Of fifteen mud houses, only two or three are still occupied. The people farm a tiny green patch at a bend in the river. A field of barley and the few huge and leafy trees stand in impossible contrast to the stark, lifeless peaks above this place.

Inside the road workers' commune the guys spend their spare time playing cards. When dinner comes, like a starving dog, I grovel humbly before the chief cook for some mutton noodles. He's amused by my hunger and knows that I'm at his mercy. I pay for it, too. This place isn't a hotel, and there simply isn't much extra food. I share a dorm room with a fellow from Kargilik who speaks English. He's responsible for surveying the grade on the road with his trusty transit. Near eleven o'clock I drowse off as one of the guys brings in a stew pot of fresh, smoky flavored fish. It tastes delicious..

Morning takes me along the river for quite some way. Up and up, hardly a tree grows anywhere. There are two small communities and one town, good for lunch. It serves as a truck stop for convoys of army trucks and individual traders. After lunch there's nothing but a hard climb. Green marshy grass appears as underground springs well up. Goats, sheep and cattle graze. I pass a smiling road crew wearing orange caps.

At five I'm looking to camp. It's at least 4500 metres, but not the top yet. Fifteen army transports dust by in the opposite direction. I ride a few more kilometres till I find a grassy meadow beneath teethy peaks. Up hill - all day. So, 58 kilometres is pretty good.