[h1]Kazakhstan[/h1]

	The early morning sunrise back lit the mountains, standing dark against the lemon yellow and grapefruit red sky of the distance. Standing among the goats, Guo and Chao leaned on sticks. They had traveled far, and often not in straight lines. Across the expanse of Kazakhstan and back again, over rivers and through its great plains. They felt its lush grasses go cold and hard as a brisk frozen wind blew from the north. They could feel it dig into them, deep into their flesh. Dressed in furs and thick coats they could both look at one another and agree: they no longer appeared Chinese. They looked like the Kazakhs. Their faces may not be as blunt, but their faces were darkened by a sun whose rays were growing colder and their hands dirtied with dirt and blood and grease and shit.

	Chao sighed, leaning forward. Guo looked aside at him. “Thinking about home?” he asked.

	“When was the last time you had morning tea?” he asked, his voice distant.

	Guo thought for a while. When was the last time he had tea? He ran his fingers through his course beard and shrugged. “I don't fault these people. Fermented milk is fine and all. What do you think?” said Chao.

	“It makes me sick.”

	Chao laughed, “I know. It makes me feel ill too.”

	“What do you suppose they do with it?” Guo asked.

	It was Chao's turn to shrug now. “I can't stop thinking about it though, Guo. The fresh smell of a cup of dark oolong. Served with rice porridge. Shit, friend; I never thought of rice porridge so well.”

	“I understand you.” Guo added, “After so long out here, I don't know if I can eat any more dried meat.”

	“I want to hear birds again too.” Chao continued, “I haven't heard birds in so long. Here, it's been the wind and the crickets. A crow sometimes. But where are the songbirds? The goose? The duck?”

	“No one thought to bring them here, I suppose.”

	“A canary song would be nice.”

	There was a sound from behind them, a shout. The two turned to see who it was and saw the old patriarch of the group they were traveling with. He looked out over the herd of sheep and goats at them from darkened eyes in a sun and wind beaten face. His balding head was covered in a cap, and his beard was heavy and silver on his face. With a dry voice he spoke at them, trying to navigate the language gap with the few words both parties knew. “I think we have this finished.” he said in grunting tones as they two waded through the animals to him.

	As they made their approach, the old man reached into his coat and produced two small green books. Each of them took one and looked down at it. As well as could be, the emblem of Kazakhstan, or something was printed on them. “Passes.” the old man said, “No real, yes-no work.”

	The two looked at each other and down again at their books. The opened them up and realized they resembled passports, sans photo ID. In it was written information, by hand in the Russian script. Looking at them the old man reached for Guo's passport and looked at it. “You, Nogai.” he said with a firm smile, and to Chao, “Oleg.”

	Guo and Chao both nodded. “Where?” asked Chao.

	“Away!” the old man declared, smiling and laughing. “Er-ah... [i]Awğanstan[/i], [i]Parsi[/i]. Er- no Parsi. Yes-no good Parsi.” he added thoughtfully.

	“Maybe?” Guo asked Chao, a ponderous look on his face. Chao shrugged.

	“Go Parsi.” the old man said, definitively, “No good.”

	The two looked puzzled at the old man, and he looked at them screwing up his face. He took the passports from them quickly and briefly checked, then handed them back real quick. He looked at them for a long moment as they processed it, and he repeated the process. A flash of illumination lit up the back of their minds, and they realized what he was saying. “Good, good.” Chao bowed.

	“Yes, yes!” the old man said, laughing, “Good be, er- ah, [i]Mafiya aq[/i].”

	“Mafiya? Who?” asked Chao.

	He could see the old man's expression darkened. Mumbling, he rose his arms like he was holding a good and pantomimed shooting them. Then shot forward with sudden speed and began sticking his hands into their pockets.

	“Mafiya? Like highway bandits?” Chao asked.

	The old man didn't understand what he was saying, and looked at him flatly, holding out his hands in a confused expression. Thinking quickly, Chao held out his hands in the shape of a gun and in a demanding tone asked for money, “[i]Aqsa! Aqsa![/i]”

	He came to clarity, and nodded grimly. “Yes. Yes.” he said.

	“What is it?” Guo asked.

	“I guess we need to keep an eye out for this Mafiya. Sounds like they're highway men.”

	“I see, I see.”

	Turning away from them, he said something in Kazakh. He looked back at the pair as he hobbled away, waving a hand to encourage them to follow.

	Through the camp they went, and to the flap on a yurt in the middle. Inside, a warm fire crackled and the smell of the burning dung filled the air. An old woman sat to one side, spinning wool. She looked up as she worked. With her were some younger girls who tiredly went about helping the slow task. They looked over but otherwise kept their eyes low. The old man, crouching low lead the two Chinese youths to a wooden chest on one side and he began to look through it. The two squatted down besides him as he went, and he pulled out a folded map. In the soft light of the fire he showed them the map of the country, it was decades old and covered in faded Russian.

	With a finger he pointed to a rough spot somewhere to the right of the middle of the country, southward. “Here.” he said bruskly. He moved his finger east-ward, until it landed on a city closer to the border with China. “Almaty. [i]Poezd[/i]. Err, choo-choo.” he ran his finger south into Afghanistan. “Kabul.”

	“So we have to go to Astana, and take a train to Kabul.” Chao said, “And then what?”

	He was mostly talking to himself as he reached for the map. The old man let him take it, and carefully he laid it on the fur carpeted rug and looked over it. What made it worse for him was that he knew no Russian. He narrowed his eyes, studying the lines on the map. “I suppose into Pakistan, and... a boat?” he mused.

	Guo leaned over and looked down at the chart of central Asia, “We might have to. But how?” he asked.

	“Aqsa?” Chao asked the old man carefully as he looked up at him, handing over the map.

	The old man looked thoughtful and looked over to his wife spinning on the far side. She returned to him a blank if unhappy look. He spoke low to himself, running his fingers through his beard. Chao and Guo both could feel the tension in their chest build.

	With a low sigh, the tension was released as the man reached into the chest and produced a handful of rubles. He looked doubtful if they'd even work as currency. But all of them looking over at the woman at the spinning world as she made a soft tsk-tsk noise told them that's what they'd have to accept. Chao took the money and pocketing it, thanking the old man profusely for his gift and his help.

	The two were about to say their good byes before the old man stopped them. His dire expression told of an urge for caution. “[i]Sarbazdar[/i],” he said, again mocking holding a rifle, “er, [i]soldaty[/i].” he corrected in Russian. He looked at them, hoping they would understand.

	They didn't.

	Fixing his face he straightened his back and his shoulders and began to briefly sing a verse from some marching song, while still pretending to hold a rifle to his chest. “Sarbazdar, soldaty.” he repeared.

	“He must be talking about soldiers.” Guo said in a low voice.

	“I think so too.” Chao responded, and turning to the old man said in their adhoc pidgin, “Thank you.”

[h1]The Dragon Diaries[/h1]

[i]Li Chao[/i]

[i]September 12th, 1960. Sunday. Year of the Metal Rat[/i]

	It's been over a month now and I'm feeling restless. In this time we've tried to build some kind of communication with the people here. Our abilities to do that much are feeling sorely lacking and every moment we take trying is a feat of mental gymnastics. All the same, some of them are willing to meet in the middle and both they and we have learned a smattering of words. At this moment writing this, I think we can do it.

	But I'm feeling restless. My back aches. I've seen enough of this country, I want to leave it. I feel if I were to remain for long then I would be inclined to go home. But I still want to press on. It's one or the other. So I asked who I think is this band's leader, I suppose. The older man, the grandfather perhaps or some older patriarch. He took to trying to learn a few words well. He's not perfect, but it's doable. It's a shame neither of us know enough because I would surely like to speak more. There's an air about him, and a way he holds himself that leads me to believe he's done much more than herd goats and sheep around the steppe. I think it'll take him a few days, but he seems to know what to do to move us along. The time we spent working here I think we both know is more than payment enough for whatever he can do to send us along.

	But what do I think of these people? This country? It feels so far behind the world. Like crossing into the steppes let us out into an ancient world. That going down that river took us back in time. It is still fortunate we did, because we may have never crossed it. But the starkness these people live in, it's amazing. There is not so much a radio among them. I doubt they have seen an automobile in decades. There's an awareness of civilization with them, but I'm still surprised, even living among them for as long as we have been that anyone could be so detached.

	But I can't say anything for the developed parts of the country here. I have not seen it.

Yet, besides the harshness and the ancient barbarity of these people there's a solidarity between them. No one man could live in this country on their own. The strength of these people as a group is inspiring. It reminds me of home, and leaves me with guilt that I am so outside of it. Maybe someday.