Arriving in Dunhuang we felt the same sense of achievement as though we had just crossed another country. In many senses we had - at 2300km wide Xinjiang is bigger than all but one country we have cycled across and, with their Turkic language and use of the Arabic script, its native Uighur people share more in common with Central Asia than they do with the Han population of eastern China. Uighur 'cuisine' also sits firmly within the limited culinary repertoire we have experienced since leaving Western Turkey: plov (rice with mutton fat), laghman (noodles with mutton fat) and shashlik (mutton fat, barbecued). The addition of fresh vegetables makes these dishes tastier than they sound, however the lack of gastronomic imagination certainly suggests that this province does not represent China proper.

Despite their cultural links with Central Asia, power does not seem to have been devolved to the Uighur people to the extent that the title "Autonomous Province" might suggest. The Uighur script is relegated to an illegibly small font on road signs, the language is not used for teaching beyond middle school and equal opportunities are not necessarily extended to this ethnic group in the labour market. Since the discovery of enormous oil reserves under the Taklamakan desert, Beijing has been working hard to bring China's largest province firmly under its wing. The government has a policy of incentives for Han people to migrate from the populous Pacific regions, which has led to their population in Xinjiang ballooning 20 fold in the last 40 years. In order to transport the black gold eastwards, pipelines and transport links are being carved through the land by groups of thousands of labourers who work with a mixture of bulldozers and hand shovels on construction sites hundreds of kilometers long. When such man-power can be set to task, I do not doubt that the Chinese Olympic venues will be completed in impressive style.

Asides from the obvious impact of widespread Han settlement in the form of slick, clean, concrete-grid cities, travelling at our pace has given us the opportunity to appreciate the little differences. I mean they have the same products in Central Asia as they have in China, but it's just, just here they're a little different. Example. In Central Asia Western brands were still surprisingly available. In Western China you think they are too, until you realise that actually a Chinese company has made a subtle rip off. Cola is no longer "Coca-Cola" but "Future Cola" and "Red Bull" has become "Red Camel", though each has an uncannily similar logo. China may not yet have built up brand value of its own (despite the fact that almost every product is described as a "China Top Brand") but it has perfected the art of the clone. In shops, eastern Chinese consumerism is becoming more evident; on what would have been empty shelves in Kyrgyzstan are stacks of disposable pot noodles and unidentifiable, overly-packaged snacks. The latter, produced by companies such as the Wahaha food corporation, look as though they could be tasty nibbles and, if the typically comical branding on the front is anything to be believed, should provide an overwhelming gastronomic sensation. To quote an example (verbatim):

"In spite of your carefully tasting it still remains so exquisite.
The fantastic feeling hovering above your head gives you colourful dreams at that moment."

Unfortunately, it does not quite live up to these wild claims. In fact, I am not sure it would be legal if it did. We ended up eating a unique tasting, odd textured food, which upon closer inspection of the ingredients turned out to be "horsebeans". The Chinese definitely have a different palate when it comes to snack foods, although we are happy to carry on eating them regardless.

Petrol stations have been another, stark difference. Not just because they represent a large step forward from the Kyrgyz selling fuel in plastic bottles on the pavement, but because they are the most prominent building in any village. Large hoardings emblazoned with the red and yellow of the state backed eastern petrol companies contrast with Uighur mud homes. They are built on a quite unnecessarily gargantuan scale: their roofs are towering steel structures, which often resemble pyramids or temples, and they cover countless pumps each manned by a bored lady. On the plus side, at least the crowd of ladies provide a welcome renaissance of the forecourt hospitality we experienced in Turkey.

And what of the last week's cycling? With 90 percent of Xinjiang's population concentrated within the mere 4 percent of the landmass which is fertile, cycling has consisted of long bleak legs across a vast undulating expanse of gravel as we hop between towns. With nothing but the horizon on either side, it can seem as though you are on an exercise bike at the gym as an endless loop of kilometer markers ticks by. While the scenery may not be as breathtaking as other places we have visited, it is satisfying to cross such empty terrain: away from staring crowds and tourist haunts all you have to do is ride. Without the itineraries, schedules or distractions of other modes of transport you can make seamless progress too. The Chinese obviously also share this feeling, as during the last leg we have met several of them travelling on little more than a rickety town bike or, quite masochistically, on foot - striving to cross their country as a feat of endurance. Not all desert is the same: rarely does it encompass the sterotypical image of sand dunes, tending instead to be rocky peaks and gravelly plains. Along one stretch, the road followed a range of red sandstone mountains and gorges in which Clint Eastwood would have been most at home. Somehow the Chinese had managed to create a package tour venue out of this mountainous view by installing a novelty thermometer, souvenir shop and ticket booth. Despite the fact that the eroded hills were visible from miles around, bus loads of Chinese tourists were justifying this inane venture by paying to get into the official enclosure. Either they have all been duped by a snake oil salesman of a tour guide or they do not believe they have seen the site properly until they have taken a series of group photos beside an enormous sign, which states what it is they are seeing while simultaneously masking the actual view. I suspect the latter.

Before this trip I had never really considered the aptness of the word depression in relation to a low pressure weather system. Not only does a monochrome sky darken an already grey landscape, but it brings a forcible headwind destined to remain for days and blight all hopes of speedy progress along these good roads. The ubiquitous "Dong Feng" lorries which grind past us serve as a frustrating reminder of how commonplace this wind is, for their name refers to the region's notorious, prevailing east winds. This gale arrived in an instant and, coincidentally, at precisely the same time as a Chinese cyclist breezed by in the other direction. He obviously had divine powers on his side. It seemed to put paid to the myth that cycle tourists everywhere experience a constant headwind, although we met someone three days later who had cycled into similar winds while travelling in the opposite direction to us! Our average speed was halved for each of those days and such was the ferocity of one of the gusts that we were blown clean off our bikes and down the gravel embankment beside the road. Miraculously, we sustained no serious injuries and, once we'd patched ourselves up, were able to continue gingerly onwards along the road.

Before this fairly sapping stretch, we were glad to have had a quiet few days of relaxation in the oasis town of Turfan. As a stop off for many travellers, we found good company in the bar of a local cafe, including an American transsexual called Lily-Marie who was a former jet-pilot and lawyer and who was now seeking enlightenment as a Buddhist monk. As a frequent visitor to China she had a lot of stories to tell and led a whole group of us off on a donkey cart to sample the street food at the night market. Walking round Turfan's sites in the heat of the day quickly became unbearably sweltering, so we interspersed trips to the ruined city of Jiaohe and the mud-brick Emin minaret with a cool beer in the shade of some vines. Now in Dunhuang, we hope to recharge our batteries in a similar manner before joining the Great Wall at Jiayuguan and cycling nearly its entire length.