But Ben’s everyman appearance did nothing for him in China. He was a Westerner. Everyone looked at him. Many gawked. A few even took pictures of him instead of the old palaces the one day he’d spared to visit the Forbidden City.
But in Xinjiang…
The more he looked around as he waited by the luggage claim, the more he realized that many of the men here didn’t look Chinese. There were plenty of Eastern Asian looks, but there were Central Asian features, too.
A lot of them.
And… a lot of the Uyghur language.
He’d been sleeping most of the flight, but the more he listened, the more he heard a language he had no idea how to decode.
“Well shit,” he muttered. He’d come to practice his Chinese, only to find out half the population didn’t seem to be speaking it. As he walked through the arrivals gate, he heard very little Mandarin at all. The people greeting friends and relatives appeared to be predominately Uyghur. A few Chinese. A few foreign business people. But his flight seemed to be mostly a mix of Central Asian looks and languages.
He sighed. “Tenzin.”
Go to Xinjiang to practice his Mandarin, huh? Typical.
Ben grabbed his bag and walked toward the exit doors.
He should have known better. After all, Xinjiang was the Uyghur Autonomous Region. For some reason, he figured everyone would still be speaking Mandarin. Because it was China, and everyone spoke Mandarin, right?
His aunt and uncle would say this was why proper prior research was so important.
Lesson learned, Gio.
The intense summer sun hit him the minute he stepped outside. Ben knew Tenzin was in the city, but he had no idea where she was staying. She’d left him a note the day after she suggested he come to Xinjiang with her. The note was… well, also typical Tenzin.
Ben—
Meet me in Ürümqi in two weeks.
Stay at the Sheraton. The beds won’t be horrible.
I’ll meet you there.
Tenzin never signed her notes because he knew her handwriting—when she wasn’t forging something—and who else would suggest he randomly fly to the most remote city in Asia?
Three old women carrying lighters approached him as he walked down the steps.
“Lighter?” they asked. “Five kuai.” One asked in Chinese, the others in what he could only assume was Uyghur.
He shook his head. He wasn’t even a smoker and he knew that was a rip-off. He might blend in more in Xinjiang, but he still had “foreigner” written all over him to the street merchants.
Street merchants were smarter than most. The former thief in him knew that.
Two of the women wandered off when he shook his head, but one cackled at him and said in Chinese, “One then. Just one kuai.”
“One, I’ll buy.” He pulled a small bill from his pocket. Having fire came in handy whether you smoked or not.
“You speak Chinese?” she asked, handing him one of the less worn lighters. “You are young! You are American?” She glanced at his bag. “English? Where are you staying? You need a car?”
“I speak Chinese,” he said. “I’ll take a taxi, thank you.” He took another step toward the taxi line.
“Bah.” She frowned and stepped to block him. Not too forceful, but just forceful enough. She was good. “Bad drivers, every one of them. My grandson is here. He’ll take you in his car. Only twenty kuai.”
“You don’t know where I’m staying.”
“You stay in the city center?”
He didn’t want to tell her exactly where, but he scanned the parking lot and saw a young man in a newer car watching them hopefully. He was about Ben’s age and didn’t look Chinese.
“I’m staying downtown,” he said.
She nodded. “Twenty. It’s very fair.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He is a good driver. You will call him if you need a car again in Ürümqi.”
Ben glanced at the boy again. He didn’t know how long he’d be staying. Didn’t know where he’d be going. A taxi would take him to the hotel and drop him off after he paid the meter, but someone his own age looking to make some extra money might be a good resource. Money he had. Familiarity with the city, he didn’t.
He adjusted his backpack and scanned the area for pickpockets. Still no sign. The soldiers with automatic weapons by the door probably discouraged them. There would be easier pickings in the marketplace.
Ben asked, “Does your grandson speak Uyghur?”
“Of course. And Chinese. And a little English. He’s very smart. He knows the city very well. You speak English?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and herded him toward her grandson. “You practice then. You speak Chinese to him. He speaks English to you. Yes? Good.”
Ben smiled and let her herd him. They passed the line of taxi drivers who yelled at the old woman. She ignored them and led him toward the parking lot where the young man was waiting with a smile and an open car door.
“This is Akil. He is a student at the university. And a very good driver.”
Akil held out his hand. “Very nice to meet you,” he said in English.
“Nǐ hǎo ma?” Ben asked.
“I am well,” Akil responded in Chinese as he took Ben’s suitcase. “And you? Where can I take you today?”
The old woman had wandered away, no doubt to sell more lighters or find more passengers for another “grandson” who was also the best guide in Ürümqi. He shouldn’t be so cynical, but life had taught him that very little was ever as it appeared. Akil seemed to know a couple languages, his car was well-kept, and he didn’t have the darting eyes of a con. Probably he was just a student looking for some extra cash. Ben was more than happy to give it to him rather than one of the hard-eyed taxi drivers.