Geography can play tricks with you on a modern journey along the ancient Silk Road. On one day in the exotic city of Kashgar, the wooden doors of a concealed family compound opened and a young woman, her head covered in a long purple scarf, her arms cradling a baby girl, welcomed me, the stranger, to enter what had seemed a forbidden precinct. Without guile or intrigue she offered a cup of jasmine tea, as is Islamic custom. Here, within this private garden, a stone courtyard dominated by an expansive date palm provided protection from the rising heat. Inside a formal reception area adorned with Ottoman arches carved into the whitewashed walls, stacks of vivid red-and-black carpets were piled across the floor.

Returning to the street outside, I heard lilting Arab music coming from a portable radio. Construction workers were patiently padding straw and clay between layers of new brick, proving that this ancient urban compound was not without new life. A few moments later, in a bustling commercial district, I watched teenaged apprentices learn how to fashion knives, swords, and metal skewers by clanging metal hammers across heated steel bars, then grinding the bars against foot-cranked bladed wheels as sparks danced and burst around them. Bearded men offered sesame bagels, still warm, and wide ovals of naan ready to be packed with morsels of lamb kebab.

More than once in a two-week journey crossing thousands of miles—from a canvas—covered yurt in a mountain preserve where horses and sheep graze and the language sounds straight out of Tolstoy, to a desert encampment where visitors can take camels out along rising sand dunes, to an incredible series of caves hidden in sandstone and displaying Buddhist carvings more than 2,500 years old—I wondered aloud, “Can I really be in China?”

The term “Silk Road” conjures images of Marco Polo’s journey to the ancient capital of Chang’an, now Xi’an. Today thousands of terra cotta warriors still stand guard there over an ancient tomb of the first Qin Emperor, attracting thousands of visitors each day. Hundreds of miles west from the Great Wall, treacherous routes carried traders on the backs of camels and horses around enormous swaths of the Taklamakan and Lop Deserts. The Silk Road’s ancient system of trails and oases (rather than a single, unified route) brought silk, invented by the Chinese, to the Emperor of Rome, who became enamored of such light and colorful fabrics. The return trip brought Persian carpets, Buddhist teaching, and Islamic influence into what is now the Xinjiang region, or “New Frontier” territories, of modern China.

It is more than 2,000 miles from the teeming metropolis of Beijing to the ancient oasis of Kashgar, which lies only about 250 miles along the Karakoram highway from the Afghan capital, Kabul. Indeed, the cultural links connecting Kashgar and the Chinese capital seem rather tenuous. The glistening domes of the city’s mosques, the night markets that offer only halal food, and the headscarves donned by most women in public all demonstrate that Islamic culture prevails in Kashgar. Starbucks and karaoke bars aren’t in favor here as they are on the coast. And the city’s enormous bazaar reflects its long history, offering huge varieties of silk and carpets, as well as local crafts such as copper teapots and wooden jewelry boxes, and, on weekends, horses.

Desolate, enormous—some three times the size of France—and rich in oil, precious metals, and other resources, the far-flung Xinjiang Autonomous Region of China could be considerd as China’s own Alaska. Comprising such vastly different cultures, it’s no wonder that integrating and controlling this contested region has, since ancient times, challenged the political leadership in the far-off capital, which endured centuries of debates over whether to annex the region or distance itself from it.

Ultimately, the mandarinate determined that at least loose control offered the best protection from the destabilizing influences of the Central Asian steppes. Perhaps that’s why a 40-foot statue of a waving Mao Zedong, one of the largest still standing in China, presides watchfully over Kashgar’s People’s Park in the center of the city. From his perch, Mao can serenely observe the morning Tai Ch’i exercises conducted by a few dozen Han Chinese, clad in silky white polyester, while the Muslim majority of Kashgar ride bicycles and scooters off to work, seemingly oblivious. Not far away stands the enormous yellow-tile Id Kah mosque, complete with towering minarets, which can accommodate as many as 20,000 visitors during important holidays.

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