Since earliest childhood, I have been fascinated by stories of the ancient European traders, and most notably, my countryman, Marco Polo, who followed the Silk Road to Asia, seeking profit and adventure. It had always been my dream to follow in their footsteps. Finally, after years of studying and dreaming, I decided to make my dream a reality, and travel to the Taklamakan Desert

The Taklamakan Desert, also called The Desert of Death, is located in China's Xingjian Province. Not far from Tibet, Xingjian was an independent country called East Turkistan until it was annexed by China after the World War II. Scientists consider it to be the most dangerous desert in the world. My plan was to travel 544 km (about 388 miles), under my own power, along the famous Silk Road, from the oasis town of Aksu to the oasis town of Kashgar.

All of my China adventures start and end in Hong Kong, where I keep an apartment just for this purpose. The Taklamakan Desert and Xingjian, in general, is so remote that it is nearly impossible to reach. The first Westerner to even see this desert was Swedish Geographer Sven Hedin in 1928. But when I contacted travel agents in Hong Kong, even they had no idea how to get to the Taklamakan Desert. The best I could do was fly to Xian, in Northern China, home of the famous Terra Cotta Warriors. From Xian, I took a 36-hour, standing room only train ride to Urumuchi, the capitol of Xingjian.

Xingjian is fascinating not only because of the adventure that awaits you there, but also because of the interesting culture of the region. The Uygur, a Turkic people who are followers of Islam, make up more than 50 percent of the population. Many Uygur men wear skullcaps and a knife in a sheath on their belt. Women wear headscarves, and some are completely veiled. The sights, the sounds and the smells of the streets in the Uygur capitol are reminiscent of anything but China. This could just as easily be a bazaar at Marrakech, circa 1600.

In the chaotic train station at Urumuchi, it was almost impossible to buy a ticket to Aksu. Almost no one spoke Chinese, except the railroad employees. But they were too busy ignoring the Uygur laborers who were trying to get home, and they couldn't be bothered to sell a train ticket.

In the end, I paid a bribe, and was rewarded with a sleeper car for the 28-hour ride to Aksu.

In Aksu, I had to choose my mode of transportation, for my desert folly. I needed something that was big enough to carry water, but small enough that it wouldn't require too much energy. Camels were my obvious first choice. But they were too expensive, and to impractical. When I saw an old man Pedaling a tricycle rickshaw full of passengers, my choice was made.

Next thing I knew, I found myself at a used rickshaw store, "What kind of rickshaw do you want?" the salesman asks. Not knowing much about rickshaws, I gave him the one criterion I insisted upon: "Give me a red one." I also had a choice between large and small.

Since at this point I still wasn't sure if I was just playing an elaborate practical joke, I bought the smallest rickshaw they had, to save money. This way, if I got two miles out of town and quit, I wouldn't be out so much cash.

The problem with the small sized rickshaw, however, was that it fits me like a clown car in the circus. The Uyghur thought it hilarious to see an 87 kilo Caucasian, with a New York Yankees cap, trying to ride a tiny, three-wheeled bicycle with a Barbie doll camper with a cargo compartment in the back.

I loaded up my new vehicle with food, water and my gear. The whole hotel staff came out to see me off, and to get a look at my crazy vehicle. They were laughing and smiling, but still suggested: "Wouldn't you be more comfortable riding the bus?"

I made it about three blocks before I realized that I didn't know how to get to Kashgar. So, I rode back and a truck driver drew out a map on the back of a cocktail napkin. And off I went again.

 The people in the Taklamakan Desert almost never see foreigners. In the Uygur mind, there were only two kinds of people, Chinese and Uygur. The thought that any other race exists was alien to them. Communication was always difficult, even though I am fluent in Mandarin. The Uygur people speak a language related to Turkish or the language of Turkmenistan. Many of them either won't or can't speak Chinese. Worse, with my dark complexion, dark hair and three days of beard, they all assumed I was Uygur, and were offended that I was speaking Chinese to them.

Other than the communication problem, I found the Uygur people extremely hospitable, if not a little curious. The road was well paved and in good condition. Once I got away from Aksu, there was little traffic except for People's Liberation Army convoys.

Occasionally, other Uygur came riding by on three-wheeled bicycles like mine, or driving horse-drawn carriages. During my whole trip I only saw one other European cyclist. He had ridden his bicycle all the way from his home in Switzerland, and had already been on the road 13 months, planning to cycle through Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand before going home.

In every village I stopped, people came out to get a look at me on my bike. In one town, the entire village lined up, and requested that I take a picture of every single man, woman and child individually. I said that I would send them copies, if they would give me their address. Unfortunately, the concept of an address wasn't part of their culture.

The reason I chose the San Lung Che, or three-wheeled bicycle, was because it had a convenient cargo compartment in the back where I kept my provisions. Since most villages are less than a day's ride apart, I managed to buy water and a hot meal almost every day. Villages are small, usually consisting of two or three restaurants, a shop or two and a truck repair garage.

Usually the Uyghur eat bread and goat meat or goat meat soup. I only carried a little food, enough dried sausages and bread to last three or four days, but I always carried a full crate of water. On average, I drank nine liters of water a day. Each time I came to a village, I drink my fill, and then replenished the water supply on my bike.

The main danger in desert riding is that water is very heavy and slows your progress. The longer it takes you to get from point A to point B, the more water you will need to carry. But, then your load will be heavier, and it will take longer. The point is you have to be careful, but not crazy.

There were many times during the ride when I had to get out of the sun. But in the desert, there was no shade at all. There wasn't even anything that cast a shadow. One time, needing a break, I found a power pole with a brick base. The base was one meter wide by one and a half meters high. I discovered that if I lay on the ground and curl up in a fetal position, the shadow just about covered my body. I stayed like this till sundown. The sun didn't set until about 11 p.m. that time of year. Dusk lasted for several hours, and I was eaten alive by mosquitoes before spending a fitful night.

Another day, a construction crew invited me to their camp to eat lunch and take a nap. I learned to sleep in drainage tunnels under the highway or under the railroad.

The most memorable day of my journey there was a 20-mile-an-hour head wind, which lasted for five hours and pelted me with sand. The wind didn't come in gusts. Instead, it was one long, continuous force of hot air, blowing mercilessly in my face and eyes, like walking into a hair dryer. It was so strong I had to walk most of the way, dragging my rickshaw.

Unfortunately the big bike acted as a sail. When my grip weakened, the bike actually blew away from me. This was the only day that I run out of water. I was panting from exhaustion, which meant my mouth was open, and the hot, wind-born sand dried out my tongue.

After the sand storm, Uygur workers invited me for dinner and to stay the night at their camp. They play a duodar (a stringed instrument) and a drum. While they sang, we danced and whirl out in the desert under a huge sky where the stars burned as bright as a reading light. It was like magic, and definitely the happiest moment of the trip.

I finally reached Atuchi, one of the larger oasis, located less than 50 kilometers from Kashgar. There was a tremendous amount of military transport going through this region, as well as trade and long distance trucking from Pakistan. The same oasis that provided Marco Polo with rest and food a thousand years ago is servicing the truckers who pass through the region today.

Atuchi is ugly, but it has a hotel, a public bath and a few restaurants. There is even an Internet cafe where you can listen to Taiwanese Pop music being sung in Turkic languages.

The final stretch from Atuchi to Kashgar seemed interminable. My bike begins rattling apart. First the carriage jumped off of the rear axle. Then the handlebars came loose and began rotating like a radar antenna. This last day was also the day of the most intense sun I had seen during the whole trip. I actually heard the cytoplasm in my brain boiling.

Far off to the right, across an expanse of about one km of barren desert, I thought I could see a huge, cool lake glistening in the sun. I wanted nothing more than to run over and jump in. Assuming that I'm hallucinating, I tried to ignore it. But no matter how long I rode, this lake kept beckoning me.

In the end, I took some advice from my paisano, Marco Polo. In his travel diaries, Marco Polo warned that all along the Silk Road the traveler would hear voices and spirits beckoning him to abandon the path and walk into the desert. He would then lose his way and die of thirst. Rejecting the promise of swimming in cool waters, probably full of ice cream, I twisted my wayward handlebars back into position and continued to Kashgar.

No one gave me a parade or a medal when I reached Kashgar. The trip was finally over. However, the journey continues. It's not about achievements or rewards, I've found. Instead, it's about having an interesting life along the way.

The journey is the real destination.

Antonio Graceffo is a full time adventure travel writer. He has studied kung fu at the Shaolin Temple, China, and completed adventures in Cambodia, Thailand, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and China. he speaks Mandarin, Khmer, and several European languages. He is currently doing a book tour in the USA to promote his new book, "Adventures in Formosa." All of his books are available on amazon.com. You can reach the author at antonio_graceffo@hotmail.com.