mountains on the other side of the valley, replete with film crew, the pure white sand-snow put a stop to things before they even began. Their small entourage seemed less than stoked at the footage of Ted plunked down in the snow with a backpack of beers and smokes, the two Americans half asleep and enjoying the scenery. Sam and I, meanwhile, had weaseled out a day of freedom by “scouting for urban spots.” By the river we found a couple rail possibilities and a surprisingly talented local graffiti artist throwing up a piece for his girlfriend’s birthday. Near a reasonable wall ride and bomb drop some friendly men chatted in their room of hanging carcasses. Most importantly, on our way back we passed the dude selling delectable meat-stuffed Uyghur bread, which unlocked yet another mini-world of Altay to us. Stuffed bread led to lamb on a stick, which led to soup, which led to some special evenings.
As we got to know the family-like group that operated and frequented the restaurant, we discovered a simple, smiling population that, even while celebrating our foreignness, imbued us with feelings of immediate comfort and familiarity (and huge appetites—the food was out of this world). I would guess taking us in had something to do with the fact that they were, themselves, a cast of characters. Most memorable among them—surpassing even the gruff, battle-worn Kashgari, our own living Rambo— was a friend I’ll call Chraj, even though the four of us held strikingly little consensus on the pronunciation of his name. Chraj, maybe 30 or so, jaunted through his small section of town like a king, or possibly local jester, constantly whistling a bird call and occasionally answered by a friend. Chraj’s emphatic version of friendship and hospitality included repeated requests that we join him in his favorite pastime, charas—unsurprisingly 83