World’s most famous animal market

After showing an interest in a lamb with the most obscenely comical testicles I am greeted with a handshake and some undercover finger signalling. I hold my arm limp but the shaking continues as a crowd develops. Why not?

The weirdest and most wonderful foods test my stomach before I wretch and almost puke as I challenge a slimy, revolting goat’s eyeball

Unsure of the lingo I flick my fourth finger against his palm. Breaking my arm free I notice a flicker of a surreptitious smile as he considers my gesture. Our little game continues for a couple of minutes until I pull off an outlandish triple fingered swipe that baffles and puzzles. Suddenly I am scared. I’ve entered into a contract that is deeply sacred to the Uighur people and their culture: I am about to buy my first sheep.

Animals are an essential part of everyday life to the Uighur people. This ethnically Muslim group has been under Chinese rule since 1949 and is tucked into the country’s far north-western corner.

A week before my arrival in Kashgar, 12 Han Chinese people were killed in two terrorist attacks by Uighur men. Many Uighurs argue that their unique culture is being trampled by Chinese suppression and desire a separatist ‘East Turkistan’ state.

Village markets operate across the region, each specialising in a particular animal. After a tip off from a goat head soup chef I head to Yoporga donkey market, 80km from Kashgar.

Famed for their size and strength, Yoporga donkeys are supposedly the finest in China and I arrive in style, hitching a ride from the bus station with an old couple and their sagacious donkey who nimbly avoids the busy traffic without any human instruction.

After receiving a parking ticket and tag, the donkey and cart are tied up in what is a wonderfully charming alternative to the concrete multi-storey car parks I’m more accustomed to. Sheep and cows line the entrance, everyone taking the opportunity to advertise a few animals, while the illustrious donkeys dominate the centre.

Following the old man’s lead I inspect the donkeys. Grabbing the testicles, inspecting the teeth, and pinching the skin along the spine are the key elements of ascertaining age and subsequently value. But I am fooling nobody; everyone can see this is a fraudulent attempt to fit in.

A middle man connects buyers and sellers and each negotiation attracts a crowd of 20 to 30 people. Village elders offer advice and handshakes become steadily more aggressive as a deal nears completion.

Keeping the negotiations secret, hidden finger movements are employed during handshakes so the crowd only learns the real price when money is exchanged.

An aggressive handshake continues for almost 30 seconds as shoulders are ripped from sockets; a reciprocally aggressive shake indicates a deal, a limp arm indicates unhappiness at the price and further negotiation. It is a fascinating insight into local culture and prepares me for the biggest and most famous animal market in the region, if not the world, Kashgar’s Sunday livestock bazaar.

But first, I wonder what happens to these purchased animals. Being Ramadan in this Islamic region, most people fast through the long summer days. Sundown initiates a scramble of activity, people flocking in there thousands and swarming to the night markets for cheap filling grub.

Armed military police stand guard on street corners and in Han Chinese areas. Tensions have been simmering since 2009 when thousands were killed in violent riots throughout the East Turkistan region – renamed Xinjang by the government.

Smells mingle in the dusty air; burning wood, boiling goats’ heads, sizzling kebabs, low grade petrol fumes, human odour and dirt. A distinct Uighur pong that is as equally enthralling as it is perversely pleasant.

Illuminated by a solitary light bulb, each market stall is surrounded by narrow wooden benches from which local grub is voraciously wolfed down. After whetting my appetite with stuffed pastries my adventurousness grows and I move through the market sampling everything that sounds alien to me but natural to an Uighur: boiled goat hoof, stuffed cow brain, spicy cold noodle and chickpea soup, sheep lung and intestine soup, boiled stomach with attached esophagus. The weirdest and most wonderful foods test my stomach before I wretch and almost puke as I challenge a slimy, revolting goat’s eyeball.

The sounds, the smells, the vitality, the life… fires being fanned and melon being chopped, chefs imploring customers, kids cleaning chopsticks, smoke rising, animals boiling, more verve in a cramped space than in a thousand modern apartment blocks.

As dawn breaks on Sunday I am already on the bus to the livestock market. Although this bazaar was separated from the main bazaar, losing the enchantment of wandering cows escaping and tearing down silk stands, it is still an unrelenting assault on the senses.

Arriving early I watch as the market steadily fills, a constant flow of animals being unloaded, some resisting but most compliant, until there is no free space, just men with mesmerising beards and rows of tightly packed animals.

Deals surround me, the intonation of negotiating mixing with the cries of desperate creatures resigned to their fate. Despite speaking no English a sheep middle man invites me to sit and observe his dealing as he meets and greets and encourages business. It’s only an hour later when I realise that he has been helping to set up the purchase of my first sheep. With deep embarrassment I recoil from the negotiations to the horror of the Uighurs.

While the men negotiate for animals, the women are at the main bazaar in their finest tailored outfits, haggling over cotton, bras and vivid fabric. Flamboyant turquoise, eloquent lime, zestful scarlet, glowing yellow: every colour and shade imaginable manifests itself in the dresses and silk stores, creating an inescapable lucid haze of swirls and lines.

Connecting both east with west and north with south, this strategically situated city market has been the epicentre of activity for thousands of years. In 2011 it still thrives, selling everything a desert town market should sell: silks and silver, tiger skins and scorpions, spices and cheap cosmetics, fake designer jeans and crockery. If you can’t find it in the Kashgar Sunday market it probably doesn’t exist.

Pummeled by activity I return to the guesthouse through Kashgar old town. But after experiencing such vivacity it is a sad walk home.

Kashgar’s old town has shrunk dramatically and now resembles a lost child among the height and modernity that encircles it. Organisations like Unicef pressurised the government into preserving this historic area but Beijing responded by charging an entrance fee.

Rumours on the street are that the authorities in Beijing are employing an aggressive strategy of Chinese monopolisation in an attempt to quash Uighur culture and instill a Han Chinese majority in the region.

Following the discovery of oil, Xinjang province has become more than just a buffer against the Muslim and Russian west. Towns have been renamed, millions of Han Chinese have migrated to the region, and most settlements have undergone an aesthetic transformation with high rise modern apartment blocks replacing the quaint rows of single-story mud brick houses.

Some argue that the ex-residents received a new modern apartment as compensation and their lives would improve significantly if they accepted Chinese rule and worked with their superiors.

It’s on this walk that I realise that my own behaviour has been as bigoted as the Chinese government. Indulging in their local culture and feigning an interest I’d then shamelessly tossed it aside because it didn’t suit me. I never wanted a sheep. And China doesn’t want anything that interrupts their long-term vision for the nation.

How long before this uniquely animal-centred culture ceases to exist and lamb in Xinjang comes in frozen packets and stuffed brain is swapped for chow mein? After four days in Kashgar I know one thing for certain: with such a vivacious culture, the vibrant Uighur people won’t go down without a fight.