Breaking Bread with the Uighur

As night falls, in the shadow of the imposing Id-Kah Mosque, the market square of Kashgar explodes into life. Street vendors surround the cobbled square and filter off into a labyrinth of dusty alleyways behind. Donkey-carts line the streets, wielding the days haul from the two thousand year-old livestock market nearby. Hand-woven carpets flutter in the dusty evening breeze, uncovering heaps of mutton carcasses, bread and watermelons. It could be ‘The Thousand and One Arabian Nights’. But this is China!
Encircled within the traders, rows of benches are squeezed together out in the open air, as the Uighur townsfolk gather shoulder-to-shoulder to dine on the night’s feast. Men wilt under the weight of kegs of kvass, sickly-sweet and still heated from the raging midday sun, served in sticky tankards unwashed from previous tender.
I tackle warm, salted naan bread, the size of a dustbin lid, but from the stares of the locals it seems I’ve got this wrong. With a sheepish grin, I turn to the man next to me, rip off a piece and offer him some, a gift well-received. Raucous laughter erupts around me. For here in Xinjiang, bread is not devoured by an individual, nor is it wasted; it is sacred, and it is to be shared. It is crunchy and dry, overly-salty, but you won’t find a scrap in the bin or a crumb on the floor.
Dishes of lakman are brought out in giant woks. Soft thick noodles shimmer in an oily tomato sauce, hidden amongst piles of mutton, onions and peppers. It looks intriguing, if not delectable. A pool of oil remains but it is not left untouched; from nowhere the bread reappears and every last morsel is sponged up. The meal is greasy, whole-hearted and homely; it’s not world-beating, it’s not even the best in China, but for families here it is everything.
As I stand to leave, money crosses palms. Later, realisation dawns - I've been swindled. The man charged me 10 yuan extra. It’s only £1 to me but a livelihood for him. After this experience I think I can forgive him.