"Go in and you will never come out" is the Chinese meaning for the name of the fearsome Taklamakan desert, a waterless basin of scorching heat and blinding sandstorms that can force men and animals to the ground for days. It is also called "moving sands" as the fierce winds could swallow whole caravans and bury ancient civilizations.

Driven by a passion for exploration, my goal was to travel the Old Silk Road through the vast deserts of western China, from Xian, capitol of Sanxchi Province, to Kasghar, China's westernmost city.

In the course of the journey, I endured 22 bus rides and moved about cities and towns mainly on foot, but occasionally on a rented bicycle or by taxi. In keeping with my trekker's "Code of the Road" of never using money to insulate oneself from the local culture, I stayed where the Chinese stay, in modest nontourist hotels, and ate what they ate, mostly from market carts or in small restaurants.

Still, it was cushy travel compared to caravan traders of old, who endured some of the most inhospitable and bandit-infested lands on Earth.

Journey into China's vast, fearsome desert — and part of you may never come back

MEMORIES ARE FOREVER ONCE YOU TRAVEL OLD SILK ROAD

The Silk Road caravans tenuously linked the Chinese and the Romans, two great empires that were, surprisingly, only vaguely aware of one other. The Romans knew the Chinese as Serica (the mysterious land of silk). They were entranced by the strong yet delicate thread, and mistakenly believed the Chinese grew silk on trees.

The desert was also feared as the land of the barbarians. In ancient times the demarcation line between China and the unknown was the Ming Dynasty Great Wall and the massive fort at Jiayuguan. The fort's infamous western gate was known as the "Gate of Human Sorrow," for through it passed a stream of despairing humanity — disgraced officials and condemned criminals, exiled forever from the land of their birth to a fate unknown, a death among strangers.

Outside the gate on the day I visited, the predawn scene was one of quiet desolation. Staring into the desert wastes, I could understand the fear, imagine the sorrow and hopelessness.

LAND OF DUNES, WALLS

Nowhere does the desert meet an oasis in more dramatic fashion than south of Dunhuang where the Mingsha sand dunes stand thousands of feet high. Silhouetted in early light, the dunes tower like the storm surge of an angry ocean about to break upon the city.

In Dunhuang, I hired a rattling taxi and a driver named Hun for the 50-mile journey to the Han Empire's Great Wall. "OK for sunrise." He said, "But now need gas." Hun promised to get me there for sunrise, but having already made stops for water, dumplings and cigarettes, we discovered the gas station was closed. Hmm. Without a doubt, independent travel in China will test your mastery in the art of patience. Hun and I would enjoy our sunrise and dumplings at the gas pump waiting for it to open.

The most labor-intensive project in human history, the Great Wall was built by hundreds of thousands of workers including many political prisoners. Constructed with rammed earth, twigs, blood and misery, the Han wall mirrored the empire's westward expansion and the development of the Silk Road. A mighty rampart, it stood a formidable 30 feet high with manned beacon towers every two miles. Today, despite having endured 2,000 years of desert extremes, 6-feet-high sections remain unbowed.

ISLAMIC CHINA

Two hours west of Dunhuang, my bus entered China's Wild West, the remote Xinjiang province. This Islamic outback is like another country within China's borders, a crossroads of cultures seemingly more Central Asian than Chinese. The Islamic religion was introduced to China by Arab traders traveling the Silk Road in the eighth century.

Today, Islam is entrenched throughout Xinjiang. The Uighur people, Turkic speakers originally from western Mongolia, comprise approximately half the population. Fervent Muslims, they have historically opposed Chinese rule.

Turpan's ancient name was "Land of Fire" and at 505 feet below sea level, midday temperatures can easily reach 120 degrees. Famous as the second lowest place on earth (behind the Dead Sea), Turpan is also known worldwide for its grape products.

Cruising the quiet lanes of the old town, I saw tall racks of drying grapes everywhere. Spacious flat-roofed homes with shady courtyards housed large Uighur families. In the late afternoon, I relaxed with a jovial crowd being entertained by a machine turning piles of dried grapes into sacks of raisins.

Hard bargaining is expected in China and my tough facade with a knife-maker delighted a crowd. "Kanj pul (how much)?" I asked, pointing to a knife that had caught my eye. He wanted 20 yuan ($2.50). I offered 10. The crowd laughed, but the seller sensed I was hooked. Suddenly. he grabbed the knife and shaved a large chunk of hair from the back of his head. Startled, I yelled "Yakshee (good)!" and offered 16. It was a deal! The crowd roared. He had gotten the better of me, but I was happy.

Later, in the open-air night market, I enjoyed a plate of mutton kebabs. It was a relaxing evening. The temperature had dropped to a relatively cool 90 degrees.

Perched on the northern edge of the Taklamakan, Kuche has a more temperate climate that yields delicious apricots and melons. Deep in Uighur country, this friendly town moves primarily on donkey and horsepower.

Uighur men wear skullcaps or four-cornered hats and the position is very important in achieving the desired carefree look. Women cover their heads with veils and silk scarves and squat among their wares with long skirts hitched up to reveal stockinged legs and flowery bloomers. In the market I watched a baker half disappear into a tandoori oven and emerge with bagels covered with sesame seeds. Uighurs call them girde nan (round bread) and I enjoyed them with every meal.

CAMELS AND SILKS

Half asleep and scowling, the security guard checked her watch. It was 3 a.m.! Sorry, but I wanted to be alone in the desert for sunrise and needed to get out of the hotel. North of Kuche, the desert is flat and soon all sounds of civilization faded into a wonderful all pervasive stillness. Old people believe they can hear devils cry in the desert. Marco Polo wrote of spirits that would call out in voices that sounded like his companions. He said he saw mysterious lights and could often hear drums. Suddenly I was jolted by an eerie bellowing sound. Uighurs say that in the desert "eyes must be strong as stone," but I saw nothing and held my ground. An hour later, the dawn revealed two humps moving slowly on the horizon. I was surrounded by a herd of wild camels.

Later that afternoon I came upon a group of busy street sweepers in Kuche's old town. When I walked into their midst the women fell silent and stared. Feeling self-conscious, I blurted the Uighur greeting "Asalam aleikum (Peace be with you)." The women burst into laughter and welcomed me with handshakes. One gracious sweeper presented me with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, which would later win me the forgiving smile of the security guard at my hotel.

An ancient caravan stop on the less-traveled southern Silk Road, Hotan lies south of the Taklamakan. Fifteen hundred years ago, a Chinese princess, betrothed to the king of Hotan, departed the imperial capital of Xian with silkworm eggs concealed in her headdress, thus compromising the silk secret China had guarded for thousands of years.

Today, sericulture (silk production) survives as a cottage industry in Hotan. On the edge of town, I watched an Uighur lady cook silkworm cocoons until they were soft enough to produce threads. She then twisted the threads into a thin yarn as her husband wound the silk onto a large wooden wheel. Another worker, whose bare feet were bright blue with yellow spots, dyed the yarn before it was spun and woven into the artistic Atlas fabrics for which Hotan is famous.

MARKET BARGAINS

Hotan swarms on Sundays when thousands carry on a medieval trading tradition in the heat and dust. A flashback to the heyday of the Silk Road, this is the liveliest bazaar in Xinjiang. I watched men toss uncured sheepskins high on a truck. Jewelers pored over jade and gems. Hand-powered stone wheels sharpened knives. While browned stained hands hauled sacks of nuts, others, black with soot, weighed bags of coal. Weavers unrolled colorful silk carpets and somber merchants bargained among mounds of wool.

I bought hand-carved wooden spoons and brightly colored saddlebags. Stopping for lunch, I watched a wheat stretcher transform a lump of dough into whirling noodles six feet long. Within minutes I was recharging with a bowl of noodle soup.

Kasghar, China's fabled westernmost city, was once the lone outpost of civilization between the vast deserts of Xinjiang and the icy peaks of Central Asia. An international trade center today, it retains the feel of an outpost and remains a melting pot of Eurasian cultures.

Kasghar's Sunday bazaar is classic Central Asian. In the livestock paddocks, horsemen galloped by testing new mounts. I watched a proud Uighur couple drive away in a new donkey cart. Cows were prodded, sheep sheared and lambs hoisted and dropped to test for meatiness. I was riveted by the protracted handshake, a bargaining tug of war with fierce eye contact. Circled by witnesses, the two men would break apart and then rejoin with a booming slap of the hands. Amidst the pushing and pulling and tough words, fiery stares gave way to smiles as deals were struck.

My days began early on the steps of an old mosque, where I was warmly greeted by the yogurt lady. Her smile revealed gold front teeth, a symbol of Uighur beauty. She happily charged 8 cents for a large bowl of yogurt and did a rousing business.

ANCIENT CITY

Kasghar's Old City exudes a medieval feel, its narrow lanes beckoning exploration. Here. I watched boot makers and metalsmiths working with hand tools. Butchers and bakers labored beside time-worn teashops. Occasionally I would glimpse a pigeon man waving a flagpole to choreograph the gracefully banked turns of his flock in flight. My nights were spent in the melee of the night market, feasting on fried fish, mutton kebabs and melons.

The Id kah mosque is the heart of Uighur Islam in China and often sees as many as 10,000 worshippers at prayer on Friday afternoons. Built in 1442, its yellow and white minarets dominate Kasghar's central square. Surrounded by shops with rows of shimmering silks, hats and jewelry, the air is filled with a sense of the exotic. Tajiks, Uzbeks, Kyrgiz and Uighurs all answer the call to prayer.

A fur shop displays pelts of wolves and the highly endangered snow leopard. At sunset an old man approached and adjusted the position of my new Uighur hat. Nodding approval, he smiled and shook my hand, his vicelike grip nearly taking me to my knees.

By journey's end, 2,000 miles of the Old Silk Road had been explored.

Taklamakan means, "Go in and you will never come out." In many ways I haven't; though I'm back in Honolulu, in my head, I am still there on the steps of an old mosque or wandering narrow lanes, in the quiet of the desert or jostling in a crowded bazaar.

Chick Alsop is a dedicated trekker who divides his time between O'ahu, the Big Island and the back of beyond.