We came down out of the hills and into a picturesque valley where in the distance a golden roof glittered in the late-day sun. As we approached the lamasery, a complex of exquisite buildings rose out of the terra-cotta soil. They were painted white with wooden beams exposed and trapezoidal windows painted black, contrasting beautifully. They were all crowned with golden stupas, befitting their status as among the holiest temples in Tibetan Buddhism.

After the bus came to its final halt we clambered out into the road and started walking in the direction of a group of colorfully dressed women. Unable to keep our eyes off their crazy fox and silken hats; robes with lynx and snow leopard trimmings; and chunky silver, turquoise, and amber necklaces, we nearly stumbled over another group lying facedown in the middle of the lane.

The figures slowly rose up, their faces covered in dust, their yellow eyes and moist lips jumping out at—and into you—like that old film footage of Bob Dylan onstage in whiteface singing “Tangled Up in Blue.” They took a big step forward, bringing their hands together in prayer above their heads, then slowly down to their chests. Dropping to heavily padded knees they lay facedown in the road again, kissing the dirt and extending their arms straight in front of them. Some clutched wooden hand protectors as they went.

We passed more Tibetan pilgrims fully prostrating themselves this way, in a self-enforced march of pain, encircling the monastery dozens of times. Spinning their prayer wheels and mumbling prayers, they wound their way around the temple complex on bloodied hands and knees. The scent of smoldering juniper branches rose from inside secret chambers as they passed the temples, each circuit bringing good karma and blessings for the New Year. And the New Year was why they had come. From all over Tibet they were flooding in to Xiahe and the Labrang Lamaser y, for the lunar calendar was drawing to an end and the Monlam Cham, or Great Prayer Festival, was about to begin.

On the day of the Cham we arrived in the main courtyard early, positioning ourselves up front. Only one bouncer monk gave us a hard time until he saw our passes and we were able to move around the circle chalked into the dirt for the dancers. Thousands of pilgrims jammed the square, quiet and well behaved as the bouncers walked among them with large sticks ready to whack the heads of any rowdies. We sat on the frozen ground for hours until midday, when a procession of monks in bright orange robes came through the center door way. The head lama took his seat on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Seated to his right was a young living Buddha. The musicians came and took their places. Giant horns were propped up with cutout dragons and drums painted with evil faces were banged in unison.

A flock of monks, wearing giant yellow crescent hats, entered with a clash of cymbals, followed by throat singers moaning their deep hypnotic chants. A curtain opened and the boy monks came running out in skeleton costumes to perform ancient steps in a ritualistic dance.

Next an assortment of ferociously masked dancers in green, red, blue, and yellow—zoomorphic creatures with bulging bloodshot eyes, large grotesque noses, and fang-covered lips—danced along the chalked-out lines that enclosed their universe. Benevolent spirits in demonic disguise, they had to be scarier than the evil they chased away.

A priest in silk gowns embroidered with dragons and geometric designs entered the center of the ring and spilled blood from a cup made from the top of a human cranium. Four skull-masked monks representing the four directions pushed dirt over the dark-stained earth and retreated to their corners. The priest opened an orange box and removed a bloody knife. The masked spirits began again to encircle the priest, moving in rhythm to the music and striking fearful poses when the drums, horns, and cymbals reached a crescendo. The priest made secret gestures with dorje (scepter) and knife, symbols of power and divinity.

The Cham went on like this for hours, the crowd mumbling their prayers and kneading their prayer beads behind us. We sat mesmerized, in awe of the spectacle in front of us, ringside seats to a forbidden rite. Cham is not a form of entertainment. It is a spiritual practice that the dancer undertakes as a meditation
in order to liberate other beings from suffering. It is considered very sacred and is thought to bring good luck to those who view it. Pilgrims attend the day-long dance ceremonies, believing in the power of the dance to remove obstacles and bestow blessings upon them. Not unlike the stained-glassed windows of Europe’s Gothic cathedrals, the brightly colored masks and costumes assist ordinary people to envision that which they hold sacred, intensifying their religious experience.

It was during these times that I made a conscious effort to burn the scene into my mind: the snow-dusted hills covered with pilgrims behind the lamasery, the other worldly sounds of the throat singers and horns, the smell of the oily smoke from the burning juniper branches. The photos I took are a record, and just that. These memories are the souvenirs we’ll keep forever.

All photographs © Denis Belliveau. All rights reserved.

Besides goiters, the Uighurs have another particular physical deformity. It begins when they’re young, getting more pronounced with age, and only affects men. They have a habit of pulling their thick felt hats down so far on their heads as to bend the tops of their ear cartilages horizontally. Years of this abuse leaves the hat wearer permanently disfigured, with the distinct look of one of the Seven Dwarfs.

Derdingiz and Alim were no exception, their ears jutting out from under their hats. The brothers stood barely five feet tall, with identical white beards. They wore the standard Uighur uniform—black karakul coats and hats, covered in dung and desert dust, over knee-high boots and suspenders—which only enhanced their fairy-tale appearance. They looked so similar that the only way we could distinguish them was by their dispositions. Alim was miserable, sour, and hard, and didn’t want much to do with us. Derdingiz was as sweet as they come and very hospitable. We started calling them Grumpy and Happy.

With a caravan of camels carrying tents, food, and enough water to last a month, we left the camp with them and a few of their sons, descending a rocky escarpment that had been carved out annually from melting snow in the Kunluns. Rushing headwaters had created a wide floodplain, depositing boulders and stones carried down from the mountains. Polo, with his merchant’s gaze, observed, There are rivers here with stones of Jasper and Chalcedony . . . which are exported for sale in Cathay and bring a good profit. To this day, the Karakash (Black Jade) and the Yurungkash (White Jade) rivers meet in Khotan, making it China’s richest source of a mineral most precious to them, jade, or as they say in old Persian, jasper.

We followed the confluence of the rivers until it meandered into smaller streams and creeks, the water disappearing under their stones. We were now in a rock-strewn path, sunken and carved among the small dunes, its high banks flanked with dried vegetation. Hours later the stony passage gave way to sand, as the banks came down to meet us in the great desert. Happy explained that the line of dried brush entering the wasteland in a crooked line toward the horizon was the river running underneath the sand. “If we ever get lost,” he said, “we follow the vegetation out of the desert.”

That night Hajji’s cousins showed us how they can survive winters in the land of no return. They dug pits and filled them with the embers of our fire. A layer of sand was thrown on top, with a carpet rolled over that. On this we made our beds and stayed toasty through the freezing night.

All photographs © Denis Belliveau. All rights reserved.

“You’ll never get out alive,” Barney Rubin declared, thumping his desk for emphasis. “There’s a civil war raging in Afghanistan! Even the kids carry guns. Believe me, you can’t get in, but even if you could . . .”

It wasn’t exactly “bon voyage,” or even “good luck.” But we weren’t surprised. Ever since we began thinking of retracing Marco Polo’s entire route in time for the 700th anniversary of his return, people had been giving us reasons why we shouldn’t go—couldn’t go—and why it would be utter insanity even to attempt a journey that would take us 25,000 miles through twenty countries and eight war zones. Barney Rubin, a distinguished Asia scholar at Columbia University, just added a few more.

All we wanted from him were some leads. Who could we talk to about traveling through Afghanistan? Who could give permission when there were no diplomats? Who could speak for the warlords who now fought each other for tribal domination? But the professor had little information to offer, and when we mentioned our Afghan contacts, he shot them all down. There was no way they could help. He spoke as if we were daydreaming boys in need of a reality check. In fact, we were way beyond daydreaming and well into obsession.

What does it mean to retrace the route of Marco Polo? There have been numerous attempts, with many inflated claims, but all have fallen short. One writer in the 1970s published a book and never even got into China! Another in the 1980s avoided Afghanistan altogether and was arrested before he reached Beijing. More recently, a photographer for a famous magazine claims to have achieved it, when in fact he only traveled 7,000 miles and flew to most of his locales. In other words, no one has taken the time to retrace the route of Marco Polo, all 25,000 miles of it.

Alone, without a crew, and using Polo’s book as our guide, we decided to try to become the first to follow in his footsteps, for however long it took, nonstop, no flights, from village to village, city to city, and along the way see for ourselves whether or not Marco’s words rang true.

We studied every version in print of The Travels of Marco Polo, and the book became our bible. For over a year we researched the route, charted maps, and read everything we could find about the journey and the countries we’d visit. Who else had traveled in his footsteps? How far did they go? Why did they fail? We consulted scholars of medieval Chinese and European history and attended lectures at the Asia Society, NYU, and Columbia University.

Despite all our research and hard-won knowledge, we couldn’t seem to conquer the biggest barrier of all: bureaucracy. With the great Kublai Khan’s golden tablets in their possession, the Polos could travel the vast Mongol empire at will, their only worry that bandits might rob and kill them—but at least they weren’t strangled by red tape.

We knew we’d have unforeseeable delays, and because most countries issue visas for only one month, we decided it was best to obtain them once on the road. Afghanistan was different. It was in the throes of what historians now call “the warlord period.” There were no visas.

Returning to our Afghan contact, we added a zinger to our plea for help by telling him what Barney Rubin had said: “His organization is a relief operation. They send food and clothes to Afghanistan. He can’t do anything for you.” It was a challenge and we knew it. He rose to it—and from his chair—and with deliberate movements picked up the phone. We anxiously watched as he spoke for a few moments in Dari and then handed the receiver to me. A deep voice asked why we wanted to go to Afghanistan.

I made our pitch: We weren’t with the CIA, DEA, or any other government agency. Our project was historical, not political, and Afghanistan was a crucial part of our quest. When I’d finished, our contact took the phone and spoke again in Dari. He scribbled down “Mr. K” and a phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it over.

“This is the man who will get you into Afghanistan. You will have to go to Washington to meet him. When you get to the airport, call this number.”

We flew to D.C. the next day, feeling as if we were living a chapter from a cheap spy novel, except that danger, real danger, still seemed far away. When we landed at National Airport, we called Mr. K from the first phone booth we found.

“Go to the Sheraton hotel,” he said. “Then call me at this number in fifteen minutes.” He gave us yet another phone number. We found the hotel in time and called again.

“We spoke to Mr. K; he told us to call.”

“Okay,” said a new voice. “Take a taxi to the Springfield Hilton. He’ll meet you there. Do not take long.”

A half hour later we sat down in the hotel lounge with Mr. K and told him about our plans, listing the regions that Polo traveled through. “Marco Polo, for most Americans, is a game you play in the pool,” I told him. He smiled.

“Afghanistan, for most Americans, means war,” he said. “I want people to know more of the history and culture of my country.” He wrote out seven letters to various warlords on our route. “Do not get caught with these by a different faction,” he said.

“Make sure they go to the right people. Whatever you do, don’t get them mixed up.”

At the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, believed to be on the very spot of the crucifixion and tomb of Jesus Christ, pilgrims from the various Eastern Orthodox traditions gather every year on the day before Easter to witness the ceremony of Holy Fire.

Because ownership of the church is hotly contested among all sects, the key to the holiest shrine in Christendom is not in the possession of any one of them. A century before the Polos arrived it was put into the neutral hands of a Muslim gatekeeper. We tracked down Wajeeh Nusseibeh in the older, more picturesque, Arab quarter of the walled city.

Wajeeh is a Palestinian whose family has held the key since 1187. Every day he rises before dawn to unlock the massive doors of the Holy Sepulchre and let the Christians flood in, as his forefathers have done for generations.

Kublai Khan had requested that the Polo brothers return to him with one hundred scholarly priests, hand-chosen by the pope, as well as with holy oil from a lamp that the faithful believe burns eternally inside Christ’s tomb. Unable to secure the priests because the pope was dead and a successor hadn’t yet been elected, the Polos’ need to fulfill their other promise to Kublai—to bring back the holy oil—became essential.

Wajeeh not only helped us obtain a vial of this same holy oil, he procured us a spot just feet from the tomb on the day of Holy Fire. The noise of the surging crowd of pilgrims echoed down from the church’s leaded dome, and it took a lot of pushing and well-placed elbows to hold such a good position. Arab Christians sang hymns dating back to Polo’s time, when Jerusalem was in Saracen hands and the church was the only lawful place they could publicly profess their Christianity. They sat on each other’s shoulders, loudly chanting “We are Christian…We are Christian…and will be forever,” to the beating of drums and rhythmic clapping.

That all changed when the Greek Orthodox patriarch entered the church and made his way to the tomb. The crowd froze in a hush as he was searched for a concealed lighter or matches. He was then sealed inside the tiny tomb with wax, where he recited ancient prayers as the throngs of pilgrims waited quietly for the miracle to occur.

He then emerged from the crypt with a symbol of the resurrection—candles believed to be miraculously set ablaze by the hand of God.