The End of the Route

“Theis baits drawe many hither, some for Curiositie, others for Luxurie, there being wayes to gett, but many more to spend.”

And thus, I had my tablecloth to be brought home and stained with life. Some future nephew, grandchild, or yard-sale picker will unfold it from the bottom of whatever trunk I end up stuffing it in and wonder what they can get for it.

But before that, it will be a beautiful part of the homes Sara, and Milo, and I make together. A bright beacon to our guests, and a layer between Ruggles and the cold surface of the table. He will greatly enjoy picking the seeds from the sewn-silk pomegranates. It's more than a souvenir, it's a symbol of a life domestic and of the trip that made me desire such life.

Made the meandering way back, passing a small public banya (bath) and considered taking one. Deciding against it, I made myself laugh with the phrase "banya mañana," just the kind of dumb multilingual rhyme my brain needed. I'll take a bath tomorrow, banya mañana, banya mañana. He is never clean, it's always banya mañana with him. I began to get annoyed with myself for repeating it so much, and I was grateful no one else was there for me to bother. On the other hand, they might have stopped me and thereby saved me.

Back at the guesthouse, I was force-fed more hot gourd chunks, golden raisins, and tea before I could get to the room. You can't get past that giant table. I was only able to escape when grandma turned her back to check the kettle. This place sure fills you up. Spent a pleasant hour in my room listening to music and repacking my suitcase to accommodate the new purchases.

At this point, there was still a week left in the trip. I was scheduled to leave Khiva in the morning, but there was still some question about the next destination. It was a repetition of the feelings I'd had earlier, a free fall of unknowing. What I would choose to do. All outcomes seemed possible. Schrodinger's tourist. 

In the sealed box of my room I was both pushing on to Nukus to see the Aral Sea disaster and heading back to Tashkent for four days of comfortable reading and writing. Both outcomes were appealing to me. My mother has a thing where she says if you're trying to decide, flip a coin, but don't look at it when it lands. Your heart will tell you which side you hoped the coin landed on, and you should do the thing that side indicates.

For me, it often feels like the coin never lands. 

I went back out to see the sun set over the minarets. To do so, I had to dodge grandma's offer of what looked like Jurassic pistachios.

Quiet and cool inside the walls of the darkling fortress. I felt peaceful and alive. My headache was gone. If it meant anything other than dehydration, the pattern indicates I will know some time over coffee in a few weeks. I'll be reading or working and.. something will happen. I have a brain scan scheduled for the day after I return, which is timely. For all my freewheeling, I do have a small streak of responsibility.

I was enjoying the glow of a lighted advertisement for coffee, when I heard "salaam alaikum" in an Australian accent. I responded with "alaikum salaam." It was Eric taking in the same air under the same sky. If Maxu had been there, I could have pointed and shouted "My friend!"

We shook hands and compared notes. He had been a pleasant constant this last week, but with the Silk Route complete, he was headed to Malaysia! I was headed away, but... not there. We pledged eternal friendship, the brotherhood of the road.

I went to try the plov at a place next to the place he recommended. He's not the boss of me! I eat where I want!

A very beautiful cat lay on the pillows and carpets and observed a night-bird with great concern. The plov was the best I'd had on the trip. Finally, some good plov! In the streets outside, old men in fur hats crossed their arms and rubbed their shoulders to warm themselves. Vendors and artists were packing away their unsold wares. Credits rolling at the end of a film. 

A feast was waiting for me at the guesthouse. I was full of plov and touched my belly to indicate this, but Granny Uzbek would have none of it. She turned up the volume on a Turkish soap opera and gently pushed me to the table where piles of bread and fruit surrounded a bowl of dumpling soup. Fine. Fine! The broth was good, but I chose not to eat what was either a giant bell pepper or a dog's ear. I had not seen any bell peppers on this trip in any of the markets, so... it may have been pumpkin shell. In fact, I'm sure of it. Yes. That has to be what it was. It is so.

In my room, I planned for the morning. The train to Tashkent looked sold out online. You can only buy tickets online if you are a local or have a Russian passport, and even then they are twice the price. But it's useful to use to check the schedule and availability. There is a place that will sell tickets to Americans online, but the service takes four days (and is three times the price). In person, the ticket office only takes cash, and there is no ATM. So... in the morning I would go to the station, hold out my remaining cash and and buy a ticket for as close to Tashkent as I could get. Ideally, Tashkent itself.

This meant I had decided against Nukus. But... if the train was sold out... or too expensive... maybe I would have enough for the bus to Nukus. Anything could happen! I had purposefully built in five "open" days to make my way back, since I had known this ambiguity was a possibility.

In the morning, my options were reduced still further. When the taxi arrived, I was making my farewells, putting on my boots, when I was presented with an enormous bill for all the food.

Granny Uzbek was making a silk purse out of a dog's ear.

I was fairly outraged, and of course they only took cash. But that was my train-ticket money. I didn't want to pay. What was I going to do, yell at an old woman? And the taxi driver was her son. If I didn't pay, would he still take me to the train station? I felt taken advantage of almost as badly as with the cabbie in Almaty. I gave her the pumpkin blood-money in tight-lipped silence.

I didn't touch my heart when I left. Burn!

Of course, it was fun to ride in the Damas again, and I had some hope the trains wouldn't all be sold out, so my spirits were aroused. I could have asked the driver to take me to the same bank on the outskirts of town as Maxu had, but.. what if we took the time to do that and during that time the trains sold out? Lord Almaty. So... I stuck to the plan and got to the ticket window. There WAS a seat to Tashkent, but I no longer had enough money. They outta call it Cashkent.

I had enough to make it to Bukhara, though! (Or Nukus). I chose Bukhara, because I knew it, it would be easy to find a room there... and I already knew the best ATMs and coffee shops. And thus, back through the desert.

Nukus and Mo'ynaq, though still very appealing, were deeper in the desert, and near an ecological disaster (nuke us indeed!), and I wasn't sure it was wise, ultimately.

I had made the safe choice, and I was also at peace with Grandma Uzbek. The food had been good, and the shorter train trip would be better for me than the endless overnighter to Tashkent, and thus her theft was for the greater good. She was like Robin Hood and the Green Goblin mixed together. Because of the pumpkins. He's a Spider-Man villain who throws exploding pumpkins.

Very short on cash, I had enough for a bottle of water. There were also a few walnuts left from.. somewhere. A long ride ahead of me, but I'd eaten enough over the last few days... I would be ok..probably.

An hour in, a stranger offered me bread and tea. I was rationing my walnuts, when the stranger handed me the cup from his Thermos and bade me drink. I did, and I was warmed by it. He tore a crust from his large, round loaf and bade me eat. I did, and I was filled by it.

Chai and non. Tea and bread. I spoke the words like a child. It was an act of great kindness, and I felt like a pilgrim on the Silk Route from centuries past. I rested and read.

I had finished A Ride to Khiva, and I started a long book in which a journalist goes through Molotov's library and visits different cities in Russia. It was a giant pile of facts with very little art to their presentation. And the theme didn't really coalesce. I'd read so many great books on this trip, I felt like pushing through this one for balance, and so by the time we reached Bukhara, I had finished it.

On the platform, a British couple took selfies with a gang of locals, all of them roaring drunk and having the best time. A marvelous scene under the moon with night trains creaking and snuffling past us like arthritic mastiffs.

No ATM at the station (no surprise), so the few, wrinkled bills I had left were going to have to get me a cab. It was midnight, and I wasn't sure if the bus I had taken before was still running. During the day, the price is $2. I had $3. The first guy who offered to take me asked for $15. I cackled in his face like a witch.

It was out of surprise, frustration, and residual anger. It probably wasn't a good idea to shriek in a dude's face. What if he'd felt disrespected or humiliated and gotten angry? I mean, the price he quoted was some real Uzbek chutzpah (and don't think I didn't banya mañana the hell out of that phrase), but a simple "no thank you," would have been more appropriate than the mocking rusty-chain sounds that came out of me.

His friends were there, and they pushed him and made fun of him. He took it with a sly smile. It was an, 'ow you say, sweeng and the meese. Ultimately, it may have humbled him, because he agreed to take me for $3.

My host, Sukhrob, had expected my late arrival and was very kind to me, taking my bags up the stairs and sparing me too long of a tour of the property. I slept and slept.

Ate the last of the walnut dust for breakfast, drank tea and wrote for a few hours, then took a very long walk into the old city. This apartment was pretty far from the action, but I was already familiar with the action, and I wanted to see the "real" city.

And boy, did I. Watermelons on wagons, a funeral procession with singing pall bearers, and everywhere the smell of hot, fresh bread. With the last of my coins, I bought some water from an old woman. She owed me change, but (as had happened once before) gave it to me in the form of chewing gum. Hilarious, but now I was truly penniless.

I invented an old Uzbek saying on the way to the ATM. "Money is cold in your pocket, but gum is sweet in your mouth." If someone told me it was real, I would have believed them.

Got my money (the sound of it coming out of the machine!!) and had the biggest cup of coffee and the largest somsa (hot pocket) I could find. I felt very confident and free, having been here and having learned its ways.

I had packed a novel by a Hungarian writer about a woman's relationship with her elderly servant, and though dense and full of complicated emotions, I was passing sick of Russian history and travelogues, and I was very grateful for it. I spent the next four hours on a series of buses back to the train station, so I could buy my ticket to Tashkent. It was exactly how I wanted to spend my day here. Crammed into public transport with a book and a mission.

That's not a joke. It was wonderful to feel invisible and to disappear into the story and to be surrounded with the ambiance of a place so very far from home. No tours, no famous landmarks. Just people on a bus headed to the train station. And back again.

Along with the metro in Tashkent, it was one of my favorite experiences.

Ticket acquired, I headed back. Took the long way again. Packed up. Finished the Hungarian book and got a lot of out it. There were situations and relationships I want to draw on when I am writing Shores of Kentucky. Which, is one of the things I came here to do. It's so hard to produce things and so easy to consume them. I want to be a producer.

I was writing, when Sukhrob messaged to ask if he could take me out to dinner to practice his English in conversation. I was feeling like a homebody, and it had been a long day, but... when was I going to have this sort of opportunity again?

He mostly wanted to try out jokes, so I was very glad I accepted. Over pizza he asked me "Why is America the most powerful country?"

Why?

"Because the people are all Emirs and Khans. Emir-n-kahns."  (!!!!!)

He asked me if I liked the joke. I told him I loved it.

To set the next one up, he told me that in Central Asia, it is the custom to pour your own tea first before pouring your guest's. This is because the tea tastes better the longer it is in the pot. So, by delaying the guest's pour, you are honoring them with a superior cup of tea.

He asked the server for tea. It was brought to the table, and he acted this next part out. "As well, he said, "the process is to pour yourself a cup, then pour it back into the pot. You repeat this three times"

It was fun to watch him do it. It's ritual behavior, but the time it takes to do this lines up with when the tea is "ready." He asked me if I understood, and when I said I did, he launched into the joke.

"Ok, got it? Ok, so the gracious host is entertaining a foreign guest. He pours the tea into his own cup and back into the pot three times. Then he pours his cup to drink, then the guest's cup.

The guest said, 'thank you for the tea, but why did you wash your own cup and not mine?"

That was the punchline. He should have led with that and ended with the Emir. When he asked me if I liked the joke, instead of saying yes, I told him his English was very good. This sort of positive deflection is a gift my mother gave me.

He was pleased and ordered desert. Then he said, "Oh! Oh! The word for 'brother' in Uzbek is 'aka.'" I said ok, and he said, so America could be the Emir-aka. I laughed like hell. America is powerful, because it is the emir's brother!

We toasted one another with a hearty "God bless Emir-aka," and he took me back home.

On the way, he pointed out the library where he used to work. "It was once the only building Bukhara have internet," he said. I showed him where the old woman had given me gum instead of change, and he said, "That one!? You are lucky you got candy! Me, she gives matches!"

How I laughed. I felt very close to him. It was a privilege to help him work out his jokes and to see his history.

And thus, I have reached the end of the Silk Route and "done the 'stans." Just a train to Tashkent and a golden horde of airliners 'til I am home.

I met interesting people, read inspiring books, missed my home, got cheated by a whole gang of old ladies, and will leave forever changed. I feel inspired, enriched, and ready to move forward to the next play. These were beautiful, challenging places, and that balance (beauty and struggle) is the key to tossing you up like a tablecloth. Before you land, mostly in place. Needing just a little straightening.

Thank you for reading, fools. Maybe Greece and Albania next year. Or maybe home. Happily and for a very long time.

The Mayor of Ichan Qala

"I was faced with the disconcerting experience of walking into my own home, bearing news of life and death, and no one to share it with. Our Neanderthal ancestor learned to weep the first time he stood in triumph over the bison he had dragged in and found no one to tell of his adventures or show his spoils to."

For the ride to Khiva, I had packed a 19th-century travel journal called "A Ride to Khiva." A classic of "the Great Game," it proved the perfect choice. Written by one of those hilariously imperialist Brits from that age, I found it quite marvelous to hear his opinions on the region and smiled to recognize how much was the same. One of his biggest hassles is dishonest cab drivers. How it resonated across the centuries!

The Great Game is what they called the political maneuverings between Russia and Great Britain during the period of Russian expansion East. The British desired to maintain and grow its Indian holdings or move into Central Asia themselves. There was concern on both sides one would control the 'stans before the other and launch an attack.

Historically, Afghanistan has been propped up by the larger powers, kept "free," as it provides a buffer between India and the "Silk Route." The Khanates who ran what is now Uzbekistan and Kyrgystan might have gotten in on this prop-up action, but they fought among themselves and proved too tempting (and easy) a target for colonization.

The Russians took advantage of this first, "won" the Great Game, and were in "completion mode" as late as the 1980s trying to take Afghanistan.

So... history and archaic language, and I was in a heaven of research and travelogues as the train made its way through the desert to Khiva.

The train was hot as hell, though I am here in autumn. I am told it absolutely roasts in summer, frequently reaching 120 degrees. In the book the Brit crosses in winter, which is the exact opposite extreme. He is frequently pausing to clear the icicles from his horse's noses, so they can breathe. I had water and walnuts, but I was uncomfortable. Stripped down to my t-shirt, though I noticed many of the locals suffering in their robes or the "casual business attire" many of the men wear.

Six hours, all told, with a mostly unvaried view of golden sands and dust. It wasn't quite the romantic dunes and colors of The Sahara, feeling and looking more like...desolation.  A slight dehydration headache was brewing. When we pulled into the station I found it a great relief, with more than the usual buoyancy that comes with "arrival." Left the oven and found the late Khiva afternoon cool and inviting.

Eric and Bjarke had taken the same train. We're all on that Silk Road conveyor belt, and it was nice to see them again. As in Bukhara, we were going to share a taxi, but... my host was waiting for me with my name printed out on a placard! So long, suckers, no room for you in the car. I'll What's App you later. They were good-natured about it.

I followed my host to... a Damas!! The van I've been dreaming of since Samarkand.. here with its side door open, beckoning me inside! A reward (it seemed). I jumped in, and we were off to Ichan Qala, the old city inside the walls of the fort of Khiva.

Just outside the station there were the signs of "development." A large shopping center going up, many hotels and apartments, but they faded as we approached then entered the old city. Crazy twisting through dusty narrow pathways, the Damas almost scraping the old stone walls. At last we were "home," and I would not have found it by myself.

A nice little guesthouse dominated by a dining table. There was no "living room" to speak of. It was a kitchen, the huge table with its surrounding bench, and two private rooms. A cup of tea was placed in my hand, and I was shown which room was mine. I was then asked what time I would like to be fed. How civilized!

My headache hadn't quite gone away. It was the first physical discomfort of the trip. I had been warned the Silk Route would be slick with diarrhea, but I've either been lucky or careful. No issues, digestive or otherwise, but the dry ride west after three weeks on the road was enough to finally get me.

I was going to nap, but a knock on the door asked me to please come out and eat. A sweet old granny held a plate of dumplings. Maybe some food and tea would bring me back to life. I ate potato dumplings and homemade bread (decorated with the flower-pattern bread stamp!) and grapes and tomatoes. It was all served in a Goblin Market of abundance. There are never fewer than eight dishes at any meal.

I was fortified, and there was light, so I went out for a quick stroll. It's a marvelously corkscrewy, dusty place in which you can easily imagine people from ages past moving along and trading, and loving, and worrying and sweeping.

The most famous landmark is The Blue Minaret (which I have seen used a symbol for all of Uzbekistan much as the Opera House is for Sydney). Compared to the magnificent tower in Bukhara, it looked a bit like a factory smokestack, but I appreciated the effort they put into it. Making my way toward it (unmissable with all the old one-story buildings in Ichan Qala) I heard music and singing and walked right into a puppet show.

A real delight with celebrating people waving puppets, some wearing masks (puppets themselves) and telling old stories in chanted code. It felt like it was for locals or just for fun. There was no organized hat for donations and no one looking around for tips. They were just... having a nice time.

Cheered (though the headache had not left), I enjoyed the minaret and the surrounding environs. The view down the main street here really is like something out of an old story, ancient towers and crenelated stone walls surrounding. I've had the opportunity to be in European castles and the surrounding environs, but this seemed so much more... like something people would live in. More relatable somehow.  I bought a small painting of traders on camelback arriving at the gates, because I would not have been surprised to look outside the gates and see them arriving.

Puppetry is a thing here, as I had just experienced, and I saw many artisans working with paper mache, molding faces. I found it all very beautiful. The evening cooled (though not my enthusiasm) and I made my way through the small maze back to the guesthouse.

Where ANOTHER meal was waiting for me. I was satisfied (and there was still the matter of that headache), but there was a great clamor for me to "sit, sit. Please to eat." and a disoriented-seeming European guest sat there alone, so I joined him for a cup of tea and some fruit. 

His name was Kristian, a German from that country's southern regions, and we found one another very good company. There was a marvelous exchange over a persimmon.

Do you know this fruit? 

"I do not know English word. It has many name. I have heard it called pear-simon."

I would like to try.

"Yes, but to be careful. It has the seeds. Do you call them seeds. As in a grape?" 

Yes, seeds.

"Even when they are so large as in the pear-simon?"

Let me see. Um...

"You must quarter it."

Ok. Ok...so, these are seeds. I would say seeds.

"What is the word for large seeds?" 

So maybe in a peach or avocado, we would call a large seed a pit.

"Ape-it?"

Sorry. Pit. A pit.

"You base this on size?"

I think so. It is a seed, of course, but at some point we call it a pit. Maybe when there is only one.

"Is this because of the hole it makes when you remove?"

Um...

"When you dig out is like a pit you dig."

Haha. I don't think the words are related, but I've never.. thought about it. Maybe!

At this point, our host asked if we had seen the show now playing on the television. It was called Central Asia's Got Talent, and a man was allowed to make a miniature plov without being eliminated by the judges.

I eliminated myself from the table after this and went to my room to nurse my head.

A serious note on this is that the "brain tear" I experienced mid-year was preceded by a terrible headache ten days prior to the event (which badly damaged my vision). Though it may have been a simple headache... my situation is such I have to take everything seriously. Would I wake up deaf? Blinder? Slurring my words? Thinking a persimmon was a puppy?

I took a hot shower and went to bed. In the morning it was not quite gone, cause for some concern. I washed my face, dressed, and prepared to explore as usual. I figured the goal of the day would be to buy a large tablecloth for home. If my brain was going to explode, there would be something nice to bury me in.

I was, as had now become the pattern, delayed by Grandma Uzbek, who pushed hot pumpkin-filled rolls into my hands and bade me sit, drink tea, and eat some cold eggs which had been waiting for me all morning. It was all very nourishing. I treated myself to another persimmon, and hit the road.

Having now seen most of what there was to offer and having some idea on what things should cost, I was at last a serious buyer for one of the larger pieces. Our home needs a tablecloth, domestic yearning has been awakened in me, and it was time to buy one. I was exactly what this town was hoping for. A sucker with desires and the means to act on them.

Spoiled for choice, the biggest problem was, "which one?" I wanted them all, the colors, patterns, and materials being SO PLEASING.

Of course, I settled on a pomegranate design, and after a few false starts I discovered the one, the cloth I would bring home to its "forever table." In a moment of pure covetousness, I also selected a large, weirdly shaped textile with a garden scene. Who knows where it will go? The back of the couch? Once I went from disinterested observer to curious onlooker to serious buyer, the taps were flowing.

The purchase required cash, and there were no machines in the old city, but not to worry, the weaver's husband was called. Which is how I met Maxu, an hilarious old man, fully embracing the character of the ebullient, avuncular local. Bear hugs and loud cries of "Salaam alaikum!!" to any and all who crossed our path. His role was to lead me to the ATM. He played it very well.

In appearance, he looked like the "Uzbek" character on all the magnets and salt shakers for sale in the market. It really was perfect.

We walked for a long time to a hotel. Every construction worker we passed got his greeting, they would raise a hand in response. Then he would turn to me, indicate the person he had just spoken to, and say, "My friend."

We passed a painter, (my friend!), a cobbler, (my friend!) and many more. The whole town was his friend. They all seemed to know him, anyway. It was charming as all hell.  When we got to the hotel, they treated him a bit more coldly, but it did not deter his cheerfulness. Alas, the ATM did not accept VISA, and so.... we had to walk all the way back past old friends and new.

A bank on the other end of town had the only machine in Khiva that took VISA cards, and so... into Maxu's car we jumped. He drove like a fucking maniac, waving to people out the window. Honking. My friiiiend! Men in trucks waved back to him, men on bicycles took their hands off the handlebars to greet him. I was laughing and excited, yelling "Your friend!" as we passed them. In the thrill of it, I noticed my headache was gone.

At one point, he gunned it, and we crossed lanes to pass three other, slower cars. Fearlessly playing chicken with oncoming traffic. He shouted his own name at this point, "Maxuuuuu!" I don't know what will happen with my brain or with anything else, but it felt like exploding in the motorcade of Maxu, Mayor of Ichan Qala would be an absolutely top-rate way to go out.

The ATM worked, and when I handed him the money he called me his friend. Tears welled up in my eyes.