Sands of Dunhuang

By Neil Matthews

The camera threatened to blow away and the masked figures appeared out of the gloom. This was not going to plan.

We had been drawn to Dunhuang by its position as a key station on the delicate old trade network of the Silk Road. On the edge of the Gobi, Dunhuang seemed to epitomise the mystery and romance of the East. A virtually empty flight from Xi'an to an even emptier airport, a ten minute drive to our hotel and the romantic visions deepened. The Silk Road Hotel is built in the style of a Tang dynasty castle. It is vast, echoing and impressive. Some people don't go as far on their holidays as we did from our room to breakfast. Every face smiled, eager to please. Late night chrysanthemum tea on the rooftop terrace gave a hance to savour the sights still to be seen.

Camels at Mingsha sand dunes

The next morning, our bespectacled guide Mary took us to one of the two main reasons for visiting Dunhuang, its sand dunes. They made an impressive sight, although they did not whistle, sing or rumble as various stories and legends had it. Groups of excitable Chinese rode rather less excitable camels, while other Chinese trooped to the top of the dunes in order to slide down them in rubber rings. Helen and I wandered over to the Crescent Moon, a natural lake which mysteriously has never dried up. Here we looked at calligraphy and photography exhibitions, sipped water flavoured with dried apricots and tried to persuade Mary that Auld Lang Syne originated in Scotland rather than in China.

Crescent Lake

The other prime attraction of Dunhuang is the collection of Buddhist art at the Mogao Caves, 25km outside the city. As our car slipped out of the city centre after lunch in the direction of the Caves, a grey and empty landscape, enlivened with the occasional shrub, surrounded us. The blue skies of the morning had dissolved into grey...or was it orange? Helen pointed to the right of the car and asked what the different colouration indicated. "A sandstorm," said Mary in the most offhand, unconcerned way you could imagine.

Fine. Until a few minutes later, as our driver continued to apply his foot to the accelerator, the sandstorm caught up with us. Not that he was worried, at least outwardly; he continued to honk politely at lorries and cyclist while using most of the opposite lane to overtake them.

"Are sandstorms unusual?" I asked Mary.

"We normally have about four in April," she replied. We decided not to press the point that this was July.

Suddenly the driver pulled the car off the road. Was he going to stop and call for help, I wondered?
Apparently not - there was a diversion because a nearby bridge had been knocked down by recent flooding. As we bumped and bounced past the remains of the bridge, we noted that the storm had not dissuaded manual labourers from continuing their work on the rebuilding. The last part of the approach to the Caves is through a boulevard of poplars. These were now bending at alarming close-to-45-degrees angles as the storm gained strength.

Finally we arrived at the car park and Mary dashed to the ticket office. As the blur of white blouse and blue jeans disappeared into the middle distance, I tried and failed to persuade myself to run after her. That lunch of minced pork dumplings and cold beef and marinated cucumber had not been a good preparation for running through a sandstorm...not to mention the fried rice, green cabbage soup with noodles, sweet and sour pork, cauliflower and the beef kebabs...and the aubergine, cabbage with chillis, steamed bread, pork with green beans and watermelons. The Chinese are generous hosts.

Sandstorm, Mogao Caves

While we waited for Mary to return, the sand swirled around the stone buildings and my hat and sunglasses became essential defensive mechanisms against the invading particles. We were not, though, as thoroughly prepared as some of the locals. Out of the sandy mist came a number of figures swathed in purpose-made or improvised face masks. Along with their dark glasses and cowboy hats, they cut incongrously sinister figures. They seemed to be ready for this eventuality and we were not, which was disconcerting.

Any port in a storm - ours was what is euphemistically called a "retail opportunity", namely the museum gift shop. We couldn't see Mary or the driver, so going back to the car was not an option. Instead we joined the growing number of visitors in the shop, wandering disconsolately round the books, neckwear, jade and other items, wondering (a) when the storm would stop, and (b) why you can only buy postcards in China in sets of 10 or more. Each new visitor staggered in to exchange remarks and glances of wonder, wry amusement and even self-congratulation for surviving it all. If there was any frustration at being unable to view the caves, it was well hidden. Eventually, we braved it back to the ticket office to find that the caves had been closed for the day. The dust might have damaged some of the paintings and harmed the visitors (the reasons were given in this order)

The Mogao caves, for today at least, were the No-go caves. So we made our disappointed way back to the hotel, with the storm still raging and the driver showing as much apparent concern for the additional danger as he had on the way out. (No mere sandstorm was going to stop him overtaking all other vehicles.) The hotel itself had closed the huge double doors at its entrance, as well as all internal doors and the rooftop terrace. However, the high step just inside the entrance which apparently wards off evil spirits had not totally repelled the invasion. Much of the gardens, and the red lanterns hung at intervals around the exterior, were now decorated with dust and sand. It was the next day before things returned to normal, the caves re-opened and the hotel returned to dealing fficiently with more customary invaders: the coach parties of visitors, swallowed up in its vast interior as efficiently as a pork dumpling.

First published in VISA 76 [December 2007]