Expat Eyes | Xinjiang in January

This is not a summer travel piece. No green valleys. No soft sunsets with tourists in frame. This is Xinjiang in January: wind like broken glass, empty roads, landscapes that feel older than language, and factories that feel like the future. My name is Tayo. I'm a creative director and filmmaker from Nigeria who has lived in China for the past six years. Let me tell you a story—let's begin!

Morning: The Whispering Ghost City

The cold did not greet us. It attacked.

A photograph work of Tayo in northwest China’s Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region.

We stepped out of the van at Fuhai’s “Devil City,” and the wind struck us full in the face—dry, violent, precise. Within twenty seconds, my fingers went numb.

In front of us were the yardang formations. Wind-carved rock towers rising from the Gobi like the ruins of a city no one remembers having built. Under the low winter sun, the shadows stretched long and sharp; light cut sideways across the stone. Everything looked sculpted by a patient, slightly angry god. The sound mattered as much as the view.

The wind did not just blow. It whistled, howled through narrow rock corridors, and echoed—not loud in a dramatic way, but constantly—like breathing or chanting. If ghosts had a language, this would be it. We were almost alone.

In summer, this place is bustling. Shuttles packed with visitors. Photo queues. Noise. In January, it was just us, the rocks, and the wind.—no background chatter, no Bluetooth speakers, no one asking for Wi-Fi. That emptiness changed everything. It stopped being a tourist site and became an experience. You do not observe it—you stand inside it; cold, stiff, half-blind from the glare, trying to hold a camera steady while your fingers negotiate a temporary strike.

From Altay City to Fuhai County, the road is a black ribbon cutting through the white.

Snow-covered steppe. Flat, endless, and calm. Mountains slide slowly past the windows like tired giants. No traffic drama. No potholes. No heroic suspension testing. Just smooth asphalt and a horizon that refuses to end. This matters more than people think.

Xinjiang is huge. Distances are not suggestions—they are facts. Outside is minus something serious. Inside is quiet. Your brain slows down. You start thinking in long sentences again. Infrastructure is not romantic. But it makes romance possible.

Afternoon: The Warm Pulse of Progress

Then the mood flipped: from ancient erosion to fresh paint, from screaming wind to humming machines. We visited Xinjiang’s clean, modern facilities—focused on processing local agricultural products into finished goods.

Inside, it was warm enough to forget that your hands had ever suffered. The contrast was almost jarring.

Outside, nature had spent thousands of years shaping rock for no reason other than physics; inside these buildings, people were shaping materials for jobs, exports, and survival. This is the Xinjiang many travel stories skip—not camels, not dunes—but factories, logistics centers, cold storage rooms, quality control charts, and staff who clock in, work, and go home. It is not cinematic in the usual sense… but it is real.

You see how crops become products, how remote regions connect to national supply chains, and how a place famous for its landscapes strives to build something stable—something that does not depend on tourists showing up with selfie sticks. No speeches. No slogans. Just operations.

That, in its own quiet way, is impressive.

The trip showed me two types of creation. One slow and cruel and beautiful. Wind shaping rock into ghosts. The other careful and tenacious. People shaping raw land into income. Both exist in the same cold place.

Worth it.

Tayo, a creative director and filmmaker from Nigeria.

Producer: Xiao Chunfei

Supervisors: Ding Tao and Jie Wenjin

Planners: Jie Wenjin and Cheng Li

Reviewers: Wang Xiabing and Hou Weili

Editors: Gvlzar Mijit and Lan Zheng