Kashgar is over 3000 miles away. All the locals defiantly ignore it and use their own unofficial Xinjiang time. A haphazard jumble of houses, shops, mosques, alleyways and TV attennas with ancient doorways leading into pleasant courtyards and elaborately colourful verandas. But all is dust. Kashgar sits on a oasis on the edge of the Tuklamakan desert just before it's river peters out into the dry sand.
Dust is everywhere.
People are constantly sweeping it around. By evening the air becomes so thick the light takes on a orange glow. A caged lark sings on the balcony of the tea house. Sandals kicked off we climb aboard a carpeted charboy to compare our bruises from the riotous Sunday market. Jason had been kicked by a horse, Nancy had been shunted in the thigh by a donkey cart, Pascal's foot had been run over by a motorbike taxi.