I'm a nervous flyer with a restless urge for adventure – an awkward combination. But when I was invited to Xinjiang, China's vast Uygur Autonomous Region in the far west, I felt both excited and anxious.

Two weeks later my grip tightened on the armrest as the plane dipped toward Urumqi. Through the window I could see the jagged peaks of the Tianshan mountains. For centuries this range has divided Xinjiang. On this journey I would see how those barriers are being broken.

The city of Urumqi reminded me of parts of Dubai - not the glitzy excess, but the sand-colored towers and sprawling markets. Delivery drivers zigzagged high streets on scooters, while vendors barbecued lamb and baked naan in bustling alleyways.

My first stop was Urumqi's International Grand Bazaar, where thousands of vendors from across Xinjiang's ethnic groups sell everything from dried fruit to musical instruments. In the summer, the bazaar is packed with thousands of locals and tourists and it becomes a riot of colour and sound.

At one stall, copperware vendor Obulkasim said: "These copper products are all handmade, and every piece takes a lot of time and effort. Tourists from all over the country come here, and they really like them, so business is very good."

Officials described the bazaar as a symbol of Xinjiang's opening. "We've seen significant growth in inbound tourism," said Wang Juan, Deputy Director of Urumqi's Culture and Tourism Bureau.

One of its busiest attractions is the Naan Bread Culture Museum. Xinjiang has more than 200 varieties of naan, and the museum sells around 30,000 a day. Manager Raziya Ali told me: "We have master bakers from many ethnic groups – Han, Uyghur, Kazakh and others – so it's a multicultural team."

Crossing Xinjiang helped me understand China's scale. The new Urumqi–Yuli Expressway, built in just four years, required 17 tunnels beneath the Tianshan. The longest - at 22 kilometers - is called 'The Victory Tunnel.'

I was the first Western journalist invited to travel its length. Did I mention I'm also claustrophobic? 

Driving in was like crossing into another universe - dusty, dim, lit by an eerie green glow. Sparks flared from welders as workers plastered walls and laid tarmac.

Chief Engineer Liu Kaizhi met me on the other side. "At its peak, construction involved more than 21,000 workers," he said. "If we had followed conventional methods, it would have taken ten years. We finished the 22-kilometer tunnel in just 52 months. That's a remarkable achievement by global standards." 

He added: "This tunnel – even across an active fault – is designed to last for centuries."

Xinjiang produces more than 80 percent of China's cotton – nearly a fifth of the world's supply. On the road I passed endless fields baking under the sun. But in Changji I saw the future: drones circling plots, sensors in the soil, and scientists guiding local farmers.

Professor Song Meizhen explained: "The drones show crop vigour and pest outbreaks. Farmers gain fast insights, enabling timely, targeted management."

In a nearby barn, farmers clustered around a screen. General Manager Meng Yongming told me: "Last year alone, we trained thousands of people. With our intelligent fertigation system, one person can now manage more than double the land they used to."

Xinjiang is also finding value in what was once waste. At a factory in Changji, Chairman Chen Jun of Xuze Biotechnology showed me how cotton stalks, usually burned, are now blasted in steam-explosion reactors. 

"By subjecting them to steam explosion we break down their rigid organic structure," he said. "The resulting feed is protein-rich, offering livestock a new resource. For ecological restoration, the material stabilizes desertified land and fosters revegetation."

In Changji I stepped into a vast greenhouse that looked more like a space station than a farm. Rows of cucumbers and tomatoes hung above trays of nutrient solution, monitored by sensors. Women picked the crop and packed boxes for market.

"Our smart greenhouse utilizes automation," said Yan Ji, Director of the Smart Agriculture Pavilion. "Temperature, humidity and light are all adjusted according to exactly what the plants need."

He added: "Traditional farming depends heavily on experience and weather, but with digital tools, production is stable and predictable. Even in Xinjiang's extreme climate, we can guarantee supply."

Kashi lies in the far southwest, where the mountains meet the desert. After a 14-hour train ride, I stood in fields of rice waving in the breeze. Not long ago this was a barren salt flat.

Project Manager Duan Haoran explained: "Our seawater rice can be planted on saline-alkali land while also improving that land, turning it into fertile fields."

For farmer Rozi Yoldash, the change was personal. "In the past, the soil was highly saline, the technology outdated, and life was hard. But ever since I rented the land, the yield has far exceeded what we had before. I both collect rent and receive a salary, and life for my family is getting better and better."

On the edge of the Taklamakan, China's largest desert, I found an improbable sight: seawater fish raised in sand.

Entrepreneur Gong Yonghong recalled: "At the time, 99 percent of the people I spoke to were sceptical: 'Deserts are short of water – how can you raise seafood there?' But I dug a two-meter-deep pit, and water appeared… I was thrilled; we had struck treasure."

The aquifer water here is naturally saline, making it suitable for marine species. His farm now raises black seabream, groupers, and pearl oysters.

For local worker Ye Wenqing, it was a revelation. "In Xinjiang, we'd never seen seafood before, so it seemed really exciting. Everything here feels new and fascinating."

In Ruoqiang County, on the desert's eastern rim, I stood before another improbable sight: the world's largest single-site solar project. Spread across thousands of hectares, the panels stretched further than I could see – a shimmering ocean of glass and steel.

"Annual generation is forecast at 6.9 TWh, enough to power two million households," said Assistant Director Shen Jinxing of China Green Development. "This displaces millions of tonnes of coal."

He added: "The power is delivered through the Xinjiang grid to eastern China, balancing supply and demand across regions. Even if local consumption is limited, clean energy here doesn't go to waste."

My journey ended in Kashi, where food told the story. In the bazaar, cumin-scented kebabs smoked on willow skewers, eggs baked on hot coals, and lamb heads stared from vendors' stalls.

Grandpa Abu had been serving his famous jar meat - lamb simmered until tender - for more than fifty years. "Our customers come from different countries and cities," he told me. "People from all ethnic groups love to come here. We treat everyone with the same prices and the same service."

In every corner of Kashi's bazaar, the same blend of influences appeared: naan baked in clay tandoors, pilaf rice with lamb and peppers, hand-pulled noodles with spicy Sichuan chicken. Flavors common in Central Asia, the Middle East, and South Asia all found a place here.

As I sampled a sweet samsa bun filled with raisins and nuts, I thought of the people I had met: engineers tunnelling through mountains, farmers planting rice on salt flats, and vendors coaxing flavour from simple ingredients.

I had arrived in Xinjiang gripping an armrest, anxious about the unknown. But in Kashi's bazaar, surrounded by music, spices, and the bustling crowd, that nervousness felt far away. What I carried instead was a sense of familiarity - and the certainty that this was not the end of Xinjiang's story.