assimacopoulos

Ürümqi— whose chantlike pronunciation “ur-um-chee” I found irresistible—was the capital of western China’s Xinjiang Province and sat in the tangled northern capillaries of the ancient Silk Road. It was the site, in 1870, of the Battle of Ürümqi, where Uyghur hero Yakub Beg, a Tajik by birth, seeking to expand his Turkic kingdom of Kashgaria, warred against the rebelling Chinese Muslims, the Dungans. In modern times, the city bloated with Han migrants from the east and pulsed as another chamber in the heart of China’s vast industrialization.

Rihangül’s evocative descriptions signaled she missed Ürümqi—they were captivating and had me missing Ürümqi too. She said I reminded her of the Uyghurs she knew there, she felt at ease with me, and she assured me I would make a wonderful guest. She didn’t remind me of anyone I knew, she made me nervous, and I wasn’t so sure about the guest part, as I typically traveled alone. A perfect match.

To my surprise, she urged me to fly to Ürümqi to meet her friends and family. I was easily convinced—leaving for unknown areas of the world thrills me. Rihangül’s invitation thrilled me so much that as soon as I got home from our evening out, I saddled up to my iMac and straightaway booked a ticket to her remote city. And now here we were.

We followed Ahmat’s directives along a now familiar stretch of Ürümqi street, searching for a pearl-white SUV trying to veer its way out of the wicked currents of Ürümqi traffic. Before long, the two of us were jogging toward the gleaming four-wheel-drive juggernaut as it idled on the sidewalk near a main intersection. In Ürümqi you can park as well as drive on the sidewalk, even during rush hour.

Once the vehicle’s occupants caught sight of us, it zoomed off the sidewalk and headed straight at us, led by retina-searing ultraviolet halogen lights. The handsome Land Cruiser bearing military plates— bold red Chinese hanzi characters, numerals, and a trail of red stars descending like tears alongside the last digit—rolled past and screeched to a stop near a huddle of suspended, bleeding sheep carcasses, a common, if initially jarring, sight in the city. We were about to be swallowed up into a vehicle belonging to the Red Army.

We approached and climbed into the rear seats, sharing energized but polite greetings with the evening’s hosts: Ahmat and his friend, the surly driver of the vehicle, Aziz. Rihangül gripped the back of the seats, elated to be in the company of her Uyghur peers. The three of them exploded into a dizzying conversation, laying bare the sonic delights of the Uyghur language.

I might as well have been wearing earplugs against their clamor (at my sharpest I caught, maybe, every twentieth word), but—over and over again—I conveyed my enthusiasm and appreciation, greeting them and introducing myself: “Yahkshimusiz! Americadin! New Yorklik! Ismingiz nimu? Mening ismim Andrew!” I wanted to test out a “Rahmat, Ahmat!” because I enjoyed the rhyme but restrained myself. Rahmat is the Uyghur word for “thank you.”

Ahmat beamed at Rihangül across the back of his seat, stupefied by her presence. The strapping guy was immediately comfortable to be around and a study in breadth with his broad smile, broad shoulders, big white teeth, giant hands, and the wide-open, slightly vapid charisma of a motivational guru. His monumental head grazed the ceiling, yet not a single hair was out of place.

As for Aziz—a roughly handsome wolverine of a man—if he weren’t hosting us, I would have avoided him on the street with his feathered hair parted in the middle, lopsided crag for a mouth, grotesque scar mangling the lower lid of one eye, and a second scar thwarted by his cheekbone—and thank God, because otherwise it would have connected his far eye to the corner of his mouth. Still, he wasn’t ugly. His generally homicidal demeanor obscured a peculiar charm. He studied us in the mirror, his head cocked at a painful-looking angle. He and Ahmat made an eccentric duo.

Rihangül whipped around to me. “Andrew guy my friends so excited to meet you. They never met an American before. You are they first. They said a friend of mine is a friend of theys. You can be they brother because I am like they sister!”

She spoke with a pleasant, quick, rolling cadence, even in broken English.

“Okay. Please tell them rahmat,” I said.

“You tell them from your side, Andrew guy. You speak

Uyghur very well.”

Rihangül had started calling me “Andrew guy” as soon as we arrived. “Rahmat,” I said.

“Rahmat,” they repeated, smiling politely and pressing their palms to their chests. Aziz thrust his hand into the back to shake mine. A pipe wrench would have had a friendlier grip . . .