Saffron

The pristine, deftly engineered road to Dushanbe was a welcome surprise, but I've long since exhausted my vocabulary describing asphalt to you. Suffice it to say that after weeks of spiteful pavement and featureless desert, it was rejuvenating.

As daylight faded and a splendid alpenglow drowned the world, I turned off the main road. Navigating a slalom of haystacks and their attendants, I arrived at my campsite. Once more, the peaches I'd bought had turned themselves into a cobbler in my bags.

As I prepared to leave in the morning, blaring music announced the arrival of a car. I wasn't in the mood to deal with rowdy youngsters, but a middle aged man with a jubilant disposition jumped out, waltzed over and offered an exuberant handshake. He was an Afghani saffron trader, and he beckoned his wife and three boys to come over. We sipped saffron tea together and communicated what little we could. As I packed up, he offered me a small vial of his ware, and I repaid him with a bottle of brandy. He let out a series of whoops and clapped his hands with delight. In Kazakhstan they had refused my gifts and in Uzbekistan I offered none, but I could tell that I would have no problem offloading my remaining stock to the kind people of Tajikistan.